Hetty's Final Project
by ncisnewbie
Summary: It's starting to look like Nell is going to be "another Hetty." What does that mean, and how would she become one? And where does that leave things with Eric?
1. Prelude

Author's Note: I do not own NCIS: LA

I've revised this to reflect conversations I've had with SilverSentinal21, who's been very helpful!

* * *

March, 2013

Chapter 1: Hetty's Problem

Henrietta Lange had a problem. But if she'd learned anything in her forty-five year career, it was that the solution to most dilemmas could be found in one of three things: First, a cup of hot black tea properly prepared; second, a healthy measure of expensive single-malt; or third, cleaning your pistol. It was too late in the day for tea and too early in the day for scotch, so the best approach was to clean her pistol. And so it was that she was to be found in the armory with her trusty weapon disassembled, meticulously rubbed down, oiled, and laid out before her.

Hetty knew her career was coming to an end. In the world of intelligence and counterintelligence, too many agents had entered the vast, lucrative gray area of private security; too many had given up so they could enjoy the human comforts of retirement; and a few, but still too many, had ended up as a star in the lobby at headquarters. To have reached her age and still be in this business was an accomplishment. For a woman to have done it was even more remarkable.

The sad fact is that spycraft is still a man's world. We never talk of Jane Bond or of Jill Ryan. Yet here she is supervising two of the best young women in the intelligence community, and all she can do is clean her pistol. Hetty thought back to those she learned from, to the stories she'd heard from her elders. She'd heard tales from the days of OSS working with the resistance in occupied Europe. What had it taken for those agents to tell her those stories, of smuggling information across the Berlin Wall, people out from behind the Iron Curtain: China, Albania, Romania? There's the rub: so many losses. The previous generation told her of their inner demons, the ops that broke their spirit. Well if they'd had the guts to tell her, then she could tell the next generation.

It was time, she decided, to let loose some of those specters: to tell some of her ghost stories. She left her pistol, still in pieces on the workbench, and went to the filing cabinet, where, behind a key lock and a combination lock, she found the list she needed, Codename, date, location, and classification level. She scanned it over, grabbed the folders for some of the lower-classified projects, and set them on the stool beside hers. With resolution and new purpose, she locked the safe, finished cleaning her pistol, returned it to its cabinet, and took the folders to her desk, where they landed atop the day's newspaper.

At her desk, she poured her first glass of scotch: the bottle from the second shelf. She'd save the top-shelf for when this plan succeeded. After 30 minutes of reviewing the files, she paused for a minute, deep in thought, then placed a call. "Hello, Anna…. Are you coming out this time? … I'm sure you will be, but listen, I've got a favor to ask of you…."

The next morning, after things settled down for the team, Hetty found Eric working in the electronics lab. "Mr. Beale, my office, please."

Once he had settled into the visitor's chair and Hetty had poured him a cup of English Breakfast tea, Eric asked "Is there a problem, Hetty?"

"Not that I know of. Is there anything you know of? I simply wanted a few minutes of your time to discuss Ms. Jones."

"She's amazing. The things she can do with a computer blow my mind. She thinks quickly in stressful situations, and her analysis always gets to the heart of the matter. She's a rockstar, in my opinion."

"I quite agree with you, although I think teamwork brings out the best in her."

"Well then, you deserve the credit, not me. I'm just plain-old-Eric."

"Now, I won't have you selling yourself short: You're an exceptionally talented young man. But Ms. Jones… remind me of the languages she speaks."  
Eric hesitated for a moment, struggling to keep up with the speed of Hetty's transition, "Well, she's mentioned French and German that I remember, and there's some talk that she knows ASL."

"And has she traveled abroad?"

"I think she went to France on a high-school trip, and to Niagara Falls with her family….She's not in any trouble, is she?"

"Good heavens, No! Do you think she wants to travel more?"

"I don't remember her saying anything in particular, Hetty."

And in your conversations, has she mentioned her long-term career aspirations?"

Eric thought for a second, "I don't know if I should tell you this, but she recently mentioned getting field training."

"What do you think was her thinking on it?"

"This was right after she was done being held hostage by Inman, and I was worried about seeing my partner in the field. But she said she was actually thinking of going into the field. I said I'd be happy to see her do that, if that's what she chose."

"That's good. Any hobbies or pastimes?"

"Well, there's volunteering, a little bit of time on her X-box, and believe it or not, she reads about herself on fanfiction. I don't think she's mentioned anything else to me…. Oh, she gets out her oboe on the weekend!"

"Fanfiction? On which website?"

"I know she reads fanfiction dot net. I don't think she reads any others."

"Hmm,... Interesting..." Hetty hesitated, "Now, I don't like to do this, but I need to ask: are you two dating?"

It took Eric the better part of fifteen seconds to recover his composure after that. When he finally did speak, his face was still three shades redder than usual. "Technically, no. You probably wouldn't understand, but we have 'a thing.' I'd like to date her, and I think she'd like to date me and I don't think she's seeing anyone else, but I really don't want to risk the great friendship we have, and I don't want to put our partnership at risk. I think I'm just too nervous to ask her out."

Hetty gave him a sad and sympathetic look. "I understand: Probably better than you think, Mr. Beale: better than you think.

"_For of all sad words of tongue or pen,  
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"_

"I'll only add, Mr. Beale, that too many missed opportunities will lead to a lifetime of regrets. _Carpe Deim_!" And then she came out of her reverie. "Well, I can help you with that later, but thank you for your time."

As a very confused Eric Beale was climbed the stairs to ops, Hetty called out, "Detective Deeks, my office, please."

* * *

Author's Note: The poetry is a fragment from "Maud Muller" by John Greenleaf Whittier.


	2. The Audition

Author's Note: I do not own "NCIS: LA" or its characters.

I've revised this story to reflect conversations with SilverSentinal21, who's been very helpful!

* * *

March, 2013

Dear Diary,

Today was a weird day. I think it's going to take all weekend to wrap my mind around it. I got up a little early, because I knew traffic would be a mess because the President would be in town, and traffic would be diverted around his motorcade. Well, I guessed wrong: it was worse than I expected, so I got to work just barely in time. As I made my way to Ops, I noticed a woman (pushing 40, I'd guess) I didn't recognize relaxing with Hetty in her office. My befrazzlement increased when I didn't see Eric at his seat and I found we already had a case—a highly classified one, at that! I quickly dug up enough of the info to brief the team, and just when I was ready to look for Eric so we could start the case, everybody entered, except that this new woman was taking Eric's place.

I gave Hetty a puzzled look, so she started, "This is Anna, a friend and colleague from way back. She's here for the day to observe us. Ms. Jones:"

"Where's Eric?"

"He's working on a flash drive for this case, so you can proceed without him."

"But this case is classified material."

"Not to worry, Nell. I've got clearance," said the new woman.

After one last glance at Hetty, I launched into the briefing. It was a little strange without Eric there to complete my sentences, but I got through it alright, and pretty soon, the rest of us were bouncing ideas back and forth, dividing up duties, just like usual. By the time Eric arrived with the contents of the flash drive, Kensi and Deeks were heading to the crime scene and Sam and Callen were off to see the victim's C.O.

Eric and I spent the day doing the usual stuff: Facial Rec, forensic accounting, Kaleidoscope and a little hacking thrown in for spice: It really would have been a normal case, except for the fact that Anna was in a corner of Ops, watching us work. Sometimes she would ask a few questions, either about the national security implications of what we were saying or about the how we figured something out. Fortunately, Hetty took her out for a long lunch, so Eric and I got a chance to speculate about her. Nothing really came of it, but he did mention that Hetty had been asking funny questions about me. I tried to ask more, but Eric seemed really nervous about it. He told me most of questions Hetty asked, but when I asked whether there were any more, he got nervous. I don't know what to make of it.

By 4:00 the case was closed, and Hetty volunteered me to drive Anna back to her hotel. I was nervous, but gritted my teeth for the job. In the car, she read directions off her IPhone and opened up a bit, but mostly she made small talk about my job and asked about my education. Anna asked, "Hey, my boss is staying in this hotel, too. Let me introduce you to him."

By this time, I was a little more comfortable with her, so I agreed.

Twenty minutes into the trip, I realized why the traffic was so bad. I asked, "We're going to have to change our route. The President's staying at the Hollywood up ahead. What's the name of your hotel?"

"The Hollywood."

"Are you sure? They usually clear the hotel out for the President when he comes."

"Well, him and his traveling party."

"You mean… you came out here on Air Force One?"

"Right. I'm what they call a briefer. I work at Langley, but every morning, I go to the White House to summarize the intelligence situation."

"For…?" I asked, not sure if I wanted the answer.

"Sometimes the NSC, sometimes the VP, but usually just the President."

"Just?…" Looking back, I'm amazed that I was able to carry on this conversation and not wrap my car around a light pole. "So that means when you wanted to introduce me to your boss…"

"Yeah. Well, I guess he's your boss too, just not so directly. Why don't you park in the next block? I suspect parking is going to be tough from there to the security perimeter. Oh, can you leave your cell phone in the car? And you don't carry a sidearm, do you?"

Once I parked, I got a chance to continue the conversation as we walked to the Hollywood.

"I guess this means I should apologize for wondering whether you had clearance to hear about the case this morning."

"It's proper practice to check, so don't apologize."

"It looks like you've got more clearance than the rest of us put together. So, how do you know Hetty?"

"I was an analyst at Langley while Hetty was there: a lot like what you're doing. Then I got posted umm… elsewhere, and she ended up being my stateside contact: my handler. We've stayed in touch since."

"What can you tell me about your time in the field?"

We continued talking as we went through more and more checkpoints, and at each one, Anna would assure the police or Secret Service, "She's with me," and that, plus my NCIS ID got me in.

I took the liberty, too, of asking her about her training. It turned out she'd been to a lot of courses, but they sounded interesting to me.

Finally, we got out of the elevator and walked down one last corridor. There stood an Air Force Major with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, who said, "Hi, Anna, have I asked you this one yet: What's green and pecks on trees?"

"I don't know: What is green and pecks on trees?"

"Woody Woodpickle."

"That's even sillier than usual, R.B.

At this point, I was amazed. "Seriously, pickle jokes? What if the President hears?" I asked.

Anna explained. "He's got the Nuclear Football: the launch codes. His job is to follow the President around and be ready in case we need to launch. You can imagine he's got plenty of time to do things like collect pickle jokes."

She continued, "I suspect it helps to keep things in perspective when you've got World War Three strapped to your wrist." I still don't know whether that observation made me feel safer or less safe.

After two senators came out a door, we went into an enormous suite. The President looked up from a desk covered with papers, and actually got up to greet us.

"Ah, Anna, I hope you had a good day."

"Yes, they were truly impressive. Mr. President, may I introduce Ms. Nell Jones, of NCIS. She was on the team that found those Soviet-era nukes back in November. Nell Jones: President Barack Obama."

"Ah, so you're the rockstar we've heard about."

"Actually, Mr. President, rockstar is just a nickname my boyf…a guy at work gave me. I only play the oboe and the cor anglais. And that's just as a hobby." Getting nervous makes me talk too much.

Anna saved me, "I will say, Mr. President, that 'rockstar,' rather summarized her work today."

"In that case, Josh, when we're done here, would you take Ms. Jones downstairs to meet Staff Sergeant Johnson of the Marine Band?"

So one of the guys, younger than me, says "Certainly, but aren't they still rehearsing?"

"And the problem is…"

"I'll bet it doesn't go over too well when they get interrupted, Mr. President."

"Josh, what do those guys call themselves?"

"The President's Own."

"And I'm…"

"…Okay. Staff Sergeant Johnson it is."

It was only after I left that I got to wondering how the President knew my nickname. My suspicion turned to Eric's babbling to Hetty.

* * *

After Nell finished her diary, she reassembled her phone and called Eric, interrupting the moping he was doing around his place.

"Hi, Eric. I found out who Anna is, and it's gonna take a few drinks for me to get you to believe it. Where can we meet? I'm buying!"

"Nell, it's 8 o'clock on a Friday night. Aren't you on your unplugged weekend yet?"

"This is so amazing, I'm stretching the rules. So don't you wanna get together?"

"No, I'd like to see you. It's just your news must be amazing if you're bending on your New Years resolution for it."

"Cut me a break! I made 'til March. How 'bout O'Reilly's Cantina in 15 minutes?"

"See you there!"

After ten minutes, Nell walked into the bar and Eric waved her over to his table.

After ordering her beer, Nell let her breath out and started her tale.

By the time she finished, two beers had brought her down from her "adrenalin high."

"Does that mean we could do something like that?" Eric asked. "I'm not sure I'd like it: too formal."

"I maybe could like it. It sounds a lot like what we do briefing the team. I suspect there's a lot more diplomatic than the criminal stuff we do, but the basics and the intelligence are the same. But there's one other thing, Eric. He called me a rockstar. Did you blab? Tell Hetty."

"Yeah, right. No, actually I called the White House myself, and told the most powerful man in the world he just had to meet this rockstar." Nell almost had to use a napkin to wipe the dripping sarcasm off the table.

* * *

Author's Note: I'm basing my treatment of the Nuclear Football on Wikipedia, but I don't presume to know whether it involves pickle jokes.


	3. Monster Truck Night?

Author's Note: I don't own NCIS: LA

I've revised this to reflect e-mail conversations with SilverSentinal21, who's been very helpful!

March, 2013

The next Monday morning, Nell was first to arrive in the office: getting ready to brief the team for whatever it was that came up. Actually, she was second to arrive: Hetty was at her side table, seeping a pot of Estate-grown Darjeeling tea. Hetty left her work to greet Nell, "Miss Jones, the monster trucks will be in town again on Friday. Do you have plans for that evening?"

"No Hetty, I don't. I hope Kensi can come too."

"I'll invite her soon, and I'll be up in a few minutes to check the situation."

About an hour later, as the team assembled for the case, Kensi tapped Nell and whispered, "I'm in."

And Nell replied, "Awesome!"

All through the week, the ladies of OSP exchanged looks that left their colleagues puzzled until Sam brought in a clipping from the paper about the monster trucks.

On Friday Hetty offered to drive, which eased Nell's concern considerably: parking was certain to be crowded. But once the three were in Hetty's Mercedes, she made her way not to the arena, but to her home in the hills overlooking the city. Hetty cautiously explained, "I think it's time you learn a bit more about the history of our trade. I hope you can understand that what I tell you is both classified and confidential.

Once the salmon was poaching and the three were settling in for salad and a chardonnay, Hetty cautiously began her tale. "I came of age in the civil rights era, and was often reading the works of thinkers, both black and white, on the matter of race relations. I realized that many of the civil rights we took for granted were even more constrained behind the Iron Curtain. So my sophomore year in high school, I dragged my family to Annapolis on our summer vacation. I was told in no uncertain terms that I lacked the stature to be a Naval officer, but the people I spoke with introduced me to someone else, who was on the board of the Light and Freedom Foundation, an obscure educational foundation that ended up financing my college education. Of course, they were just a shell body set up by the CIA for this purpose, but it worked: I got an education, guaranteed employment, and a way of helping behind the Iron Curtain.

During the summer after my sophomore year in college, I got training at Langley, in the precursor to today's FLETC course. The next summer was spent in specialized courses: Mornings were languages and afternoons were tradecraft. A little bit of background training after I graduated, and I was off to Thailand by August. Sure, I had had to give a cover story to my friends and classmates in college, and had to infiltrate a couple groups on campus. I don't know if anything came of that, but I thought I was doing the right thing.

From there, I was moved to Hanoi, with the cover that I was a rogue journalist for a counterculture magazine. I was tasked to befriend Ho Chi Minh, and keep my ear to the ground about the status and plans of the VC.

Once the stories started, they wouldn't stop, as if some circumstance had opened the floodgates of her memories, and tales waiting to spill out were finally freed: Romania, Nicaragua, Colombia, Peking, and so many more. After Hetty dropped them off, back at the mission, Nell and Kensi could only look at each other in wonder, amazed by what they had learned from Hetty. Their eyes exchanged a one-word question: why? Why had the famously secretive Henrietta Lange divulged in a single night so many secrets?

* * *

Author's Note: Hoped you liked it. So, what would fanfiction look like if Hetty wrote it? Tune in next week on "Hetty's Final Project" and find out.


	4. Kiev Chicken, by theGardenGnome

Author's Note: I do not own NCIS: LA. I've revised the story to reflect the conversation I've had with SilverSentinal21, who's been most helpful!

* * *

I recently enjoyed tea with a distinguished and iron-willed lady. Her face just barely cleared that table when she said, "It routinely amazes me how excessively saccharine the future is in much of the fanfiction I read. I decided to indulge my curiosity about what other options there would be for Nell less domesticated than '2.3 kids and a white picket fence,' "

And with that, she passed me a thumb drive and asked me to post the contents. When I asked if she wanted to use a pseudonym, she suggested theGardenGnome.

* * *

January, 2019: Chernobyl, Ukraine

It was a damnably cold wind that whipped across the face of Special Agent Nell Jones. This was the cold and the wind that had defeated both Napoleon and Hitler, and now Nell Jones was the one to engage it. The Arctic Ocean had been the last thing with any capacity to warm this air, but that was blanketed in ice, and more than a thousand miles away. Since then it had traversed the tundra of Siberia with nothing better to do than give its heat to the universe. It had had the last heat wrung out of it by the Ural mountains, and now was funneling around the gaping hangars Nell was plodding between, in six inches of Ukrainian snow. Her handler, Gavin Owens, had "gotten a tip" that there were nuclear weapons stored unguarded in warehouses near here, and Nell was the one to go check it out. So, with her pistol holstered under her parkas and with her radiation monitor in hand, Ms. Jones was trudging through her search grid for any sign of radiation.

This wasn't as easy as it seemed, for she was in the Chernobyl exclusion zone, that region around the reactor too contaminated with fallout to be safe. Which made it the perfect place to hide a radioactive warhead. _Where better to hide a tree than in a forest? _But Nell had modified the software on her radiation scanner so it could sort out whether the radiation was from a warhead or from a nuclear reactor gone bad.

Nell's search was interrupted when she noticed an unexplained void in the snow. Certainly, the wind could move the snow around the buildings unexpectedly, but this void defied that logic, defied any logic Nell's experienced and nimble mind could offer: There had to be a heat source underneath! Her radiation monitor had detected nothing out of the ordinary near here, so she relaxed slightly: enough to notice a faint wisp of condensation around one of the pipes emerging from underground: an air vent for something. Caution bristling through every nerve in her body, she approached the vent, and brought five senses to bear on the problem: She'd let the radiation monitor replace her sense of taste in this situation.

It was hearing that next alerted her. She heard…voices…coming from the pipe. She tore her outer mittens off and with expert but trembling hands, MacGyver'ed into her satellite phone the mike she normally wore as a wire. She lowered the mike down, then she dialed the cell phone she'd left in the car. During the few minutes she spent leaving herself a voicemail, she looked around and had time to consider, of all things, Harry Potter's Extendable Ears, and this finally brought a smile to her face. It was then that the stench caught her, the smell of human waste, but mixed with something else, something too flowery and cloying to explain. After a while puzzling about this, she retrieved the wire, unplugged it from her satellite phone and returned to her radiation search.

The radiation in this area was low enough that it would be safe to work for a few hours, given today's wind direction. But it was the thought of Chernobyl, as much as anything, which convinced Nell this was another one of Gavin's wild goose chases. She'd gone through all this risk to send herself a voicemail whose significance she didn't understand. So, still puzzling over the mysterious voices, she returned to her car.

Gavin's wild goose chases: As Nell trudged back to her car, she thought back to all the tips and hunches the upstart had sent her on. They met when he was a probationary agent in her department at Langley. Then he made agent and they had a brief but unsatisfying fling. But, since he was half brown-noser, half golden boy, he'd been the one to get the plum assignment, while she'd been given a more substantive assignment: a work horse to his show horse.

Their paths had crossed several times since, after he married one of mail clerks. This wasn't the first time he'd "gotten wind of" nuclear weapons in the black market, and Nell's mutinous thought was that her "bagging one" would be the thing that finally put Gavin in an department head's chair.

By the time she returned to her flat, her bile had finally subsided, so she could turn her attention to her find. She marked the location on the aerial reconnaissance photo Gavin had given her, probably no better than what she could pull off Google Earth back home. Then she uploaded her voicemail to her audio software and started her wizardry.

She was able to identify more than a dozen voices, all female, most speaking Ukrainian, but a few speaking Byelorussian. They all sounded scared, and young, not over twenty, and she recognized rural accents in both languages.

"_Cold… so cold."_

"_Stay with me, Irina. You get the blanket next. Yuri says we'll be in Paris soon! Imagine shopping on the boulevards."_

The puzzle was still fresh in her mind as she composed a brief encrypted e-mail to Gavin Owens. It merited a sentence in her report, but nothing more. The work complete, she left on foot to buy some groceries. On her way back from the store she passed a streetwalker, dolled up for her evening work. It was a few paces later that Nell caught the scent of her perfume: the same cloying sweetness she'd detected in the exhaust stream. She remembered the lock she'd seen on one of the doors near that vent, anomalously new for that wasteland, and then the pieces fell into place: she'd heard, and smelled, a shipment of human traffic getting ready for departure.

Even before cooking dinner, she started on the electronic snooping she was so good at: the skills honed during her years in Los Angeles. Within minutes, it became clear that Yuri would be handing them off to someone else for shipment tomorrow at 3 pm. Nell wrote another email for Owens, explaining her theory. After dinner, the reply came back from Owens, and it was a heart-breaker: "We're here to find warheads, nothing else. Those girls' fates are not our concern. Focus on Birjandi for a while: if anyone is more interested in finding nuclear weapons than we are, it's the Iranians."

Frustrated nearly to tears, Nell set about her snooping again, this time focused on Birjandi, the Iranian spy: if she could just get him out of the way, it would delay the Iranian plan in Ukraine for about a year. Then it hit her: a plan formed in her mind.

First, she hacked into the Revolutionary Guard's email server, and downloaded all the conversation between Birjandi and headquarters. Her Persian was a little rough, but she got the gist of it: Birjandi got his orders via email. Then she placed a call to her old colleague from LA, "Hello, Sam…. Yes, long time no see….Thanks, I've been wondering how he's doing….I've got a question for you: Who's the Persian language contact you'd turn to? Michelle? Do you have her email address?…Oh, that Michelle! Okay, I'll just email you." She collected the emails into a single file then wrote an explanation in her email.

"_Sam and Michelle,_

_Thanks for your help on this. Here are some emails between an Iranian field agent, Birjandi, and his handler, Damarand, in the Revolutionary Guard. I plan to spoof an email from headquarters to Birjandi telling him that he can buy 'an important shipment' at an old air base at 3 tomorrow. Here's the location. He'll need cash: you decide how many Euros. But I want to get the usage just right. What would that text sound like coming from Damarand?"_

By midnight, she had the reply. "Nell: Damarand is himself a bad piece of work: CIA's been wanting to take him out for a while. Here's that text you needed."

Nell quickly used the handler, Damarand's, account to send Birjandi the email. By the time she'd cleaned up her electronic footprints, the email was erased off the handler's account: she'd time-warp a copy back into the account after this all went down. With luck, it would look like Damarand was using the agent to procure prostitutes to traffic into Iran.

Then she left to start her tail on Birjandi. It was clear he'd gotten the message, and she rather liked the idea of Birjandi scrambling for all this money, just to have it confiscated by the Ukrainians. There was nothing particularly exciting about the tail; it was just so damnably cold. Parked outside each of Birjandi's stops, she had the time to think. This was clearly the coldest place she'd been posted, and Sumatra was clearly the warmest. That was the perfect spot for a torrid, tropical romance: She'd enjoyed her liaison with Michael, an attaché with the British Consulate, but the diplomatic wheels turned, and he was posted to Ghana less than a year after it started. The odds were that their paths would cross again after a couple of postings, but Nell wrote the relationship off as lost.

At noon, Nell went for a walk. Half a block down the street, she passed Dmitri, a bumbling henchman for her adversary in the Ukrainian state police, and he began to tail her. A few blocks further on, Nell came to a café in a quiet part of town: she stepped into the vestibule and waited. Right on cue, Dmitri walked past, and Nell grabbed him: one gloved hand across his mouth to prevent noise. "Join me for tea," she commanded. Over tea and pastries, Nell gave him the tip: Human trafficking in the Chernobyl exclusion zone, complete with the location, and a photo of one of the traffickers: Birjandi.

By 2:30 that afternoon, Birjandi had gotten a truck and was headed to the hangars in the exclusion zone. Nell got to watch from the warmth of her car as the Ukrainians actually doing the smuggling arrived first, then Birjandi with his briefcase of cash, then Dmitri and his team.

She hurried back to her apartment to put the finishing touches on the electronic trail: Now a copy of Damarand's email to Birjandi was waiting in Darmand's outbox, with a time stamp precisely matching the copy in Birjandi's inbox. Over the next few days, she watched as the pieces fell just like she planned: The Ukrainians arrested Birjandi for human trafficking and confiscated his cash. She got wind that the Iranians arrested Damarand for planning it. The girls got checkups and got sent home, sadder and wiser. Dmitri got a medal. Gavin got his promotion. And Nell got a new handler: just like she'd expected.

* * *

Author's Note: I'll be meeting my mysterious contact again soon. She promised another story at that point. I just hope this time we meet over Scotch!


	5. Shanghai Hausfrau, by the GardenGnome

The Hausfrau, by TheGardenGnome

Author's Notes: I do not own NCIS: LA.

Richard Clarke's nonfiction book, _Cyber War_ has shaped my thinking for this chapter.

And finally, an enormous thank-you to my beta-reader, SilverSentinal21! They have been patient with my inexperience but persistent in extolling good. Any errors which remain are solely my own!

I enjoyed another cup of tea with my contact, _theGardenGnome_, and she offered me yet another story. I offered to teach her how to post stories, but she became rather short with me. The cloak-and-dagger treatment behind her writing served only to increase my curiosity. Why couldn't she post these stories herself? She said that in her line of work an element of mystery kept life interesting, as long as it involved no danger. She also consented to let me report why she's writing these stories. She wants to get the attention of a colleague at work, a very talented young woman who likes to read fanfiction.

January 2019: Shanghai, China

Frustration coursed through every artery of Mrs. Nell Jones. Missy would arrive late at school again. Only a preschooler, and already a truant. But on top of that, traffic on her link had just tripled. Since the Chinese Army had set up base in Shanghai for its electronic warfare, America needed someone there to monitor activity and intervene if necessary—"boots on the ground," and Nell's boots were some of the most sensible in all the Foreign Service! Last year, Nell had convinced the Air Force Cyber Command and Department of Homeland Security that the Great Firewall of China had the same feature as any other wall. If worse came to worse and you needed to get through it, someone on the inside working out could meet up with someone on the outside working in. And thus she had become the tip of the spear when it comes to electronic counterespionage. Her husband's cover, "cultural liaison," gave him diplomatic immunity, but—officially at least—she impersonated a stay-at-home mom who got to see the cultural sites and wouldn't need diplomatic immunity. In point of fact both Nell and her husband worked as Cyber warriors, doing what she had done since her days at the OSP in Los Angeles.

The consulate buildings sprawled across a one-acre walled complex, complete with apartments for the diplomats and staff, but Missy attended the American School in the next neighborhood to the west. Typically, an embassy driver would drop Missy off at school and Nell would pick her up. As soon as her husband left for the office, Nell finished getting ready for her day and took Missy down to the embassy car.

At the tender age of three, Missy could already call herself a true world traveler. Since her birth they'd lived in the US, Belgium, Singapore, and now China. Disruptions in Missy's social life had become routine, and at this stage consisted only of a change in playmates every few months. But Nell could see Missy growing more aware of their nomadic existence: always changing schools, alwayschanging friends. She'd vacationed stateside for a few weeks back in September, and Missy could barely recognize her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins!

As with most modern-day nomads, the disruptions, the cultural quirks, and the difficulty of making new friends caused the little family to turn inward for support and companionship, so much so that Nell's sisters remarked with jealousy on how well Missy and her father got along.

Beside the waiting car, Nell crouched on the slushy sidewalk to look at her daughter.

"Momma, can we have Moo Shu again tonight?"

"Again? I think you just like the Hoisin sauce!" she teased.

Missy wheedled, "I'll show you the letters and characters with the sauce! Please?"

Nell smiled inwardly. This had become a favorite game since they'd arrived in October. Nell feigned her reluctance, unwilling to reveal that playing with food like this was educational.

"Well, okay, but you have to promise to ask two good questions at school today."

"I will, I promise. I love you Mommy!"

"Love you too Missy!" After a hug, Nell kissed Missy on the forehead and helped her climb into the car.

Walking from the front gate to her office, Nell grabbed a copy of the diplomatic cables off the aging Teletype printer. The tension between China and Japan over islands in the China Sea had escalated so much that U.S. had just announced they would send the _Van Buren_ carrier group to "observe," and, if necessary, intervene on behalf of the Japanese. Already, the Chinese Ambassador in Washington had delivered a verbal note, a fairly strong protest.

Nell sat down at her computer and checked her e-mail. The in-box contained three secure e-mails of news from home. All of them indicated trouble. The home office, along with a Department of Homeland Security office, sent alerts out with important news from home. At eight that morning, Shanghai time, a distributed denial of service, DDOS, attack crashed the computers of a bank in Burbank—hackers had put a virus on lots of computers, programming them to all ask for the bank's homepage at the same time over and over again. The bank's file server simply couldn't keep up with this traffic. Then, a freight train had derailed in Kansas because of a software error, but the circumstances screamed, _"most likely a hack."_ Finally, another "software error" scrambled the information for the cell phone towers for Sun Coast Wireless in Florida so the computers couldn't connect any of the calls. Seen separately, the three incidents each looked like a fluke, but taken together with the diplomatic tensions and the spike in Internet traffic out of Shanghai, they fit a pattern: the feared Cyber Attack on the United States had begun.

Nell used her secure satellite phone to call the Department of Homeland Security. Congress had long ago given them responsibility for protecting the civilian Internet infrastructure in the United States, and DHS had finally recruited enough people to administer cyber security for the federal government, all the .gov sites. The act charged them with security for the commercial Internet, too, but until 2017 their role had been purely advisory. In 2017, however, anarchists in North Carolina had used the Internet to burst the Keystone Pipeline. The resulting crisis finally shamed Congress into authorizing DHS to establish and enforce standards and empowering them to intervene to protect civilian sites. Only now had the DHS Cyber Advisory Center recruited enough staff to do much more than watch. For months, they had scoured through every Internet cafe, every basement, and- -for all Nell knew- -under every rock, to find and train cyber experts whom the contractors and the Air Force had missed.

Finally, the secure call went through. "DHS Cyber Advisory Center. Mike Smith here."

"Hi, this is Nell Jones, Director of Information Technology Security, US Consulate Shanghai. Calling about the uptick in hacking activity you're seeing today."

"Shanghai—" the young man replied breathlessly. "You're calling about my problems? Well, I really shouldn't be on the phone chatting about my problems because I should be at the terminal solving them!" he snapped. He took a deep breath and continued on in a more professional tone. "We've got DDOS attacks on a dozen banks on the West Coast. That first bank in Burbank still hasn't recovered. We've got..." he trailed off and she heard a loud beep followed by the clicks of fingers across a keyboard. "Oh, Blast!" Smith shouted. "Now we've got someone hacking into the computers in the control room at the Three Mile Island nuclear plant, trying to disrupt the electrical grid. Hackers tried to take over the computer system of a dam in Colorado, but the Army Corps of Engineers stopped them before they could release all the water in the middle of winter." He paused again and Nell heard shouting in the background. "Oh, BLAST IT ALL!" he shouted again. After that, she could only hear the sounds of his fingers' staccato attack on his keyboard.

"Well, I'm calling about where they're coming from."

"Estonia, Algeria, Chile, Indonesia. Would you believe we just got hacked from Nepal?"

Nell jumped in, "No, and you wouldn't either!" Nell settled enough to put on a didactic calm, which—unfortunately—lasted less than one sentence. "Internet traffic out of Shanghai's cyber warfare center has more than tripled, and it's easy to mirror through some unprotected computer just to confuse someone like you, too overwhelmed to think of that!" she growled. _'I shouldn't have to explain a simple "false flag" technique,'_ she thought, hoping she'd gotten through. Calming, she realized the frazzled young man on the graveyard shift would resent people calling from all over the globe on the worst night of his professional life.

"So you're saying you think the Chinese are hacking all these things at the same time?"

"Yeah!" Nell replied, struggling to suppress the urge to say_ 'duh'_ instead.

"We need to be absolutely sure."

"Why don't you send me the log of all the IP addresses of all the hacks you're seeing stateside, and I'll compare them against what I'm seeing leaving Shanghai? But be careful. It has to be on the secure line."

Within a week of arriving in town last October, Nell had hacked the Shanghai center, so she and her computer had spent the whole winter reading the header information for each of their Internet transactions, just like reading the "to" and "from" address on every present under the Christmas tree. As she talked, Nell wrote a simple program to use the same header information from Smith to check off everything that came from Shanghai, the better to see trends within the remainder. Her fingers flew over her keyboard, and in just a few minutes lines of data flew across her big screen.

"Okay, Mike. It's gonna take some time for any trends to show up. I'll put the consulate in cyber-lockdown, then call you back."

"Got it, Nell. We'll keep putting out the fires here, and I'll call DOD cyber-command and see if they want to go offensive."

"Offensive? Won't they need authorizations for that?"

"Oh, yeah! I can't even imagine how high this decision'll hafta go. I better make some calls."

After she hung up, Nell closed a few programs on her computers and took a second to think. It sounded like in response the US would probably hack the power grid in Shanghai, trying to cut power to the Chinese cyber base. The disruption would send the town into a panic little Missy should not see. She reached for a land line to call her husband, thanking her lucky stars she'd found someone so sweet, understanding, and flexible. "Hi, Hon…. Me too, that was nice. …Listen, things are getting tense here, … Right, the _Van Buren_…" She dropped her voice, but smirked as she said, "You didn't hear it from me, but for some reason I'm thinking about, say, a 'mysterious blackout.'" Her voice returned to normal. "Yeah, it's that bad…. We're recalling everybody to the consulate…. Would you be willing to pick up Missy from school? …I bet Mrs. Schwartz from across the hall could stop by to watch her: she loves Missy…. Ooh, candlelight! …Love you too! Thanks!" And she smiled.

Back at her console, Nell caught her breath and looked longingly at the big screen, wondering what her program was finding, but the air gap took priority. She felt the familiar hum in her mind, making time seem to slow down as ideas and actions raced through her brain. She started rummaging through the dark back corners of her lair as her quick mind listed the problems and mapped out their solutions. She muttered, "They'll be monitoring, dummy activity, backup printers and copiers, cell phones, backup generators," Then her eyes went wide as she completed the train of thought: "Marine Guards!" After only a minute's searching, she found the old Dell laptop she remembered stashing there.

On her way to the workbench, she removed the wireless card in the Dell laptop and then booted it up. Now, she programmed a few lines of code. Bracing herself, she reached behind one of the consoles, double-checked that she had the right cable, took a calming breath, and unplugged it, replacing it with one from the laptop. The old Dell computer replaced the entire consulate's connection to the Chinese Internet. While the 'air gap' would inconvenience the American personnel it also kept the Chinese out. Further, since the Chinese certainly monitored the Consulate's Internet activity, her new little program on the Dell generated enough dummy traffic to fool them. Her first task done, she felt herself relax.

She looked at the big screen of the main computer, stretched her neck once, and watched her first program's progress as it sorted out the hacks from Shanghai from the once coming from elsewhere. Thus rejuvenated, she could dash to the basement where she grabbed a spare cart and loaded it with a Gateway laptop, some cables, and an HP printer dating from the '90's. Nell needed to avoid the modern printers because of their Internet-compatibility. While this allowed the manufacturer to run diagnostics, a hacker could also capture images of all its pages, for instance. The old HP, however, didn't require access to the Internet at large.

Back in her office, she cabled everything together and cursed the dust that had collected on it. Once Windows started, she wrote out a notice to tape on every printer and copier saying, **"Copiers and printers out of order: please see attached memo…**

_Because of current diplomatic tensions, it appears our hosts have undertaken offensive cyber disruption activities against the United States. In response to this, the consulate has been put on full cyber lockdown. There is no Internet traffic between the consulate and China. Contact with the United States should be minimized, but carried out via our secure satellite link. I further recommend the following protective actions:_

_* All wireless cards and routers be disabled,_

_* No cell phone traffic,_

_* No use of copiers and printers: their Internet capability, ostensibly to permit remote diagnosis, potentially also permits remote access with malicious intent._

_In preparation for potential US responses, I recommend the following:_

_* All staff and family returned to the diplomatic campus._

_* Additional Marine Guards,_

_* Additional cash on hand for personal and diplomatic expenses,_

_* Emergency generators checked and primed. All non-essential appliances unplugged._

_Signed: _

_Nell Jones, _

_Director of Information Technology Security"_

As Nell proofread the memo, some of the Consulate's staff started collecting at Nell's door, each with a less-than-diplomatic perspective on their individual Internet woes: "Jonesey, my browser is down…" "Little Nell, I can't reach…" "Whoa, Nelly, why won't this print?" Normally these Izod-wrapped nicknames denoted affection, but today they just grated on her, so each time someone else barged into her crowded office she simply pointed to the memo on her Gateway's screen and then ignored the intruders.

As Nell proofread her memo Jeanne Tilson, the Consul General, arrived. Fifty years old, she oozed an unflappable demeanor from her very core, but today's unexpected chaos quickly turned her as aggravated as the rest of the staff. Nell almost launched into her explanation when Jeanne, too, caught sight of the explanatory memo on the laptop screen. Rather than continue the conversation, Ms. Tilson kindly nudged Nell aside and edited the memo, replacing Nell's name and title with her own and replacing _"recommend"_ with _"order."_ Then she hit print for 100 copies.

Quickly, the crowd of diplomats mapped out the next steps, dividing the tasks and completing each other's thoughts just like Nell had loved back in OSP in LA. The unlucky ones had to make secure calls to the State and Defense Departments, while the rest had a good laugh as Ph.D.'s in International Relations got volunteered as low-tech mail clerks or to roust Marines out of bed for double-duty.

After the rest of the staff left, Nell gave Jeanne a relieved "Thanks," as she left, too. Nell took a moment to contemplate their relationship. They'd met at a reception at headquarters, and over canapés had talked casually about their careers in Foreign Service. After learning of Nell's recent wedding, Jeanne had followed the lead of every grandmother and maiden aunt the couple had ever met and asked about plans for kids. As Nell kept fending off the questions, she sensed a deeper purpose, though, and so turned the conversation to Jeanne's son, now a junior at a college in the Midwest.

A year on the diplomatic circuit had moved Nell and her husband to New Delhi where she got a friendly email from Jeanne describing a best-practices working group she would chair at headquarters. Hoping against hope to see two positions on the same committee, Nell and her husband went for it, and ten months after celebrating their applications' approvals, Missy was born in a suburban DC hospital. Nell had worried that her maternity leave would weigh against her in future postings, but she had found a pair of postings in Brussels that built on the work they'd left in New Delhi.

Right on cue, the lights in all the offices went out and the bustle of the office dropped to a near silence. Nell and Jeanne shared a knowing grimace as they met at a window where they heard the generator by the south wall changing pitch, adapting to the load. Nell smiled with relief, then love, as she caught a glimpse of her family trudging back onto the consulate grounds past an unusually strong Marine contingent. Jeanne left to organize the consulate's response, while Nell returned to her office as a few emergency lights lit her way through the still-unfamiliar halls.

Back in the seat she called her cockpit, Nell looked over the comparison she had run since her call with DHS, and what she saw brought her up short. Most of the attempted hacks started in Shanghai, as she'd expected, and they all disrupted civilian life. But as she looked at the rest, she found a troubling trend. The activity not from Shanghai focused on the US military in South Korea. These other hacks all appeared to come from Internet cafés in Seoul, Pusan, and Gangnam, but more careful analysis showed that each of those computers mirrored a computer in Ecuador, but in turn that mirrored an office in North Korea. They thought they could put unwanted presents under the US Christmas tree by asking the Internet cafés in South Korea to deliver them. _'So—those blasted Koreans can play at the false-flag game, too,' _she thought.

Before that thought could fully form, Nell reached for her satellite phone. A quick, secure call to the Air Force's cyber command would allow her to alert them to her find. As her call went through, she grumbled about the archaic division of labor that left the Air Force in charge of Internet security for the military and DHS struggling to protect access for civilian sites. _'Privacy, laissez-faire, outsourcing our own security! A highway has police; shouldn't the information superhighway, for goodness sake?' _

Her mind worked through the consequences of what she'd found. It looked like the North Koreans had noticed the Chinese hacking US civilian sites, and decided to capitalize and to lay their own groundwork for hostilities against South Korea and the US forces there. Either they could move before the _Van Buren_ arrived or after it left, because the aircraft carrier would be that much extra firepower for the US. Nell clung to the alternative hope, that they were just laying groundwork in case they ever needed it.

Finally, the call went through. "George Wickham here."

"This is Nell Jones, US Consulate, Shanghai. I've been monitoring the cyber-attack, and the activity coming out of here."

"Shanghai—yes. DHS has seen a lot of mostly civilian stuff coming out of there today. Probably because of the _Van Buren_."

Nell hurried through her words. "Right. But they set me up to monitor all the hacks they were seeing, not just the ones from Shanghai. I noticed something important."

"Namely…" he asked with trepidation.

"North Korea's using this as a cover to go after us in South Korea as well."

"Ms. Jones, tell me something I didn't know. My job is to stop these things, wherever they come from." That brought Nell up short.

"I just think it's important that we get the attribution and motivation right," stuttered Nell.

"Look—we got the word to go after Shanghai a few minutes ago. I was one of the guys that took out their power grid." The pride in Wickham's voice matched that of a video gamer who'd just reached level forty-three, and so sounded completely at odds with the real-world panic he had created. Nell attributed that dissonance both to his emotional immaturity and to the physical distance between Wickham and his victims. "We're already authorized to go after North Korea. The Joint Chiefs want us to take out their Internet link. I just can't get past their firewall."

Nell thought for only a second. "Can I give it a try?"

"What makes you think…?"

"Remember that Wall Street Internet blackout, back in 2011?"

"Ma'am, I was fifteen at the time. It's legendary."

"I was there when he did it. He called it 'breaking the Internet.'"

That pulled him up short. He asked with awe, "You were there? Believe it or not, that's what got me into hacking and Cyber-security. Be my guest. Go for it."

An undertone of determination colored Nell's voice as her mind put the final touches on the plan she mapped out. She asked, "And attribution? Remember, I'm in Shanghai."

For the first time, relief crept into his voice. "That sounds all the better. See if you can make it look like the Chinese are behind it. That way, it'll look like they're being responsible, cooling things down on the Korean Peninsula."

As she hung up, Nell remembered what Eric had done when he "broke the Internet," but first she had to lay the right footprints. _'Not only am I good at detecting a false-flag hack,' __she thought__, 'I can pull one off, too.' _She scooted back to the old Dell, the one outside the air gap, and started her hacking. Four months she had spent researching for a moment like this, so she already knew the Chinese hacker network and already knew the weak links. She had identified a hacker at an auto plant, and one at the agriculture ministry, so she routed her hacks through their computers. From there, she hacked into the Chinese cyber war department itself, then repeated what Eric had done so many years ago, this time directed at the Koreans.

Just as Nell relaxed and took three calming breaths, the secure phone started ringing again. Too drained to pick it up, she read Wickham's name on caller ID, so put it on the speaker.

"Jones, You got 'em! Thanks!" Again, child-like awe colored Wickham's voice, as if it were all a game. Nell realized just how far the Air Force had to stretch to staff its cyber command. He really didn't belong in the military, and he could attribute his rank to the desperate times in which he served. Nell's thoughts raced again to "_pencil-necked cyber-dweeb_."

"Yeah, Thanks for the call."

"What did you end up doing?"

The inflection of a pimply teen in his mom's basement grated on Nell, but she had to admit that that probably represented his preferred habitat."Back in October, I'd found a couple hackers here who aren't careful about their own Internet security, so I mirrored through them into the Shanghai unit. From there, I just went into the North Korean's trunk line and…well, it'll be in my report."

"Cool! So it really will look like it was the Chinese who hacked the Koreans! You're a genius!"

"_Well, yeah, but I got the job done, too_," she thought, but instead she said, "I think we just dodged a bullet there. I hope my hack will give diplomats time to sort things out."

As she punched the speaker off she decidedshe'd finally have time to check in with her family, so she turned toward the door to leave, but whom should she see but Jeanne Tilson, the Consul General, whose five-foot-ten frame had achieved an entrance with the same stealth on which Hetty prided herself. For a moment, Nell looked at her boss and mentor with pride, but the look on Jeanne's face, worried and disappointed, squelched Nell's joy and it took her a heartbeat to realize what upset the older woman so.

"What's this, Nell?"

"Turns out that in addition to the Chinese hacking US civilian sites back home, the North Koreans were taking advantage of the distraction to hack into military sites in South Korea. So I took 'em out."

Jeanne's eyes expanded in surprise. "You did what? On whose authorization?"

"I shut down all connections between North Korea and the World Wide Web," she replied with pride. "It's okay. Wickham couldn't do it from his side."

"And you did this because…?"

"Because they were hacking South Korea!"

Stress made Jeanne rub her temples in frustration. "Nell, you did it because he asked you! You escalated a major conflict on the say-so of a simple lieutenant. But how did you know that he had authorization?"

"Because he said so! Listen, we didn't have time to talk. If I hadn't hacked them, how do we know they wouldn't have attacked before the V_an Buren_ got here?"

"Because you did hack them, how do we know they won't attack before the _Van Buren_ gets here?"

Nell remained unrepentant. "Because that's the judgment the Joint Chiefs made. Wickham told me they had."

Before Jeanne had a chance to reply, the sat-phone rang. "Please hold for the Secretary of the Air Force," said the voice on the speaker.

Nell replied, "I'm here with Jeanne Tilson, the Consul General, US consulate, Shanghai." While they waited, Nell and Jeanne glared at each other, each with a schoolyard-level told-you-so scowl on their face. Nell, of course, hoped to bluff her way through it. As she waited, she knew she'd erred, and that a few seconds of braggadocio, a few minutes of trust in someone she'd never met could end her career. She'd let Jeanne down, someone who'd had faith in her since she'd joined the Foreign Service. She could only hope instead for another call of congratulations and thanks.

"Ms. Jones, we wanted to thank you for your work on this crisis." Nell exhaled with relief. "You've been saying for a while that it would help to have someone behind the Chinese firewall, and this proved you right. We may get some flakfrom the Chinese that you abused your diplomatic immunity, but…"

"Actually, Mr. Secretary, my daughter and I don't have diplomatic immunity."

This brought him up short, for he let out a string of obscenities worthy of any sailor. When he returned to his senses, he apologized, "Pardon my language, ladies. Ms. Jones, if they figure out it was you… "

"They should thank me, too, for making it look like they prevented the North Koreans from doing anything crazy." A smile crept back into her demeanor as she looked across at Jeanne.

"They should," he conceded, "but we wouldn't know until it's too late. Let's get you out before they find out what happened."

"And her family," interjected Jeanne.

"Actually, my husband does have diplomatic immunity. Perhaps he can stay behind to pack up our effects."

"Sounds like the best plan. We'll fly something in from Seoul. Be at the airport in two hours." And abruptly the line went dead.

As soon as SECAF hung up, Jeanne gave Nell a warm embrace. "You went out on a limb, there. I'm going to miss you." Backing up to look Nell in the eye, she continued with friendly self-assurance, "Now, you go. Get yourself and Missy ready for the trip. We'll send you two over to the embassy in Seoul, and work out postings for you and your husband as soon as we can. You might even stay in South Korea. Get going. Traffic is always bad, but with the blackout, it'll be even worse."

Nell arrived back at the apartment just as her husband had finished setting Missy up with Mrs. Schwartz, and she dragged him into their kitchen for a quiet talk.

"Nell, I thought things were busy for you today."

"They were, because of the _Van Buren_, but then I had to do some seriously nasty hacking."

" 'They were'? … Past tense?" He asked with a cringe.

"Yeah. I ended up having to block North Korea from the Internet."

"How bad is it?"

"Well, the Secretary of a Military Department used curse words I didn't even know existed, so—it's pretty bad."

"Nell, you better back up. How did we get from the China-Japan conflict to North Korea to a dressing-down from the Secretary? Which department, by the way?"

"Air Force, and I didn't get the dressing-down. He was just mad at the circumstances. Anyhow, like you said, it started with those islands in the Sea of Japan, and the _Van Buren_. The Chinese are upset, so they started hacking US civilian web. North Korea, meanwhile decided to capitalize on it so they flew under the radar to hack our army in South Korea. The Air Force asked me to take out the North's Internet, and when I did, I impersonated China. When this comes to light, they'll come after me."

"Good grief. What are we going to do?" He sat down at the kitchen table as it sank in.

Nell braced herself to deliver the bad news. "It sounds like we have to move."

"When?"

"Missy and I have to be at the airport in," she checked her watch, "a hundred and eight minutes." He looked up in shock. She continued meekly. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but can you pack up?" In times like this, Nell felt grateful that she'd found someone as sweet, understanding, and supportive as she had. She also recognized the upside to working in the same field as your spouse: he understood when work gave you crazy curveballs like this.

"Yeah. Where are we going?" She sat down across his lap, and rested her forehead against his.

"We'll meet at the embassy in Seoul. Work things out from there. As you can imagine, it was all really fast. They'll have a posting for us soon. Jeanne mentioned Seoul, but we'll have to see." Her rapid-fire speech slowed down, and she whispered, "We'll have that candlelit interlude some other time…Soon!"

Nell gave him one lingering kiss, but once she roused from her reverie things started to move in a blur of activity. Only after the driver loaded the last of the suitcases into the diplomatic van did Nell have time and space enough to recover and reflect on what had happened: another posting shot, another group of friends to replace, and no idea where the bureaucracy would send her next.


	6. A Typical day at the Office

Author's Notes: Let me start with an enormous thank-you to my beta reader, **SilverSentinal21**, who's been very kind and sharing in preparing this story for posting. Their stories, "_The Date_," and "_The Value of Damaged Goods_," have been benchmarks that have guided me.

I do not own NCIS: Los Angeles or its characters. The chemicals Senpecia and HCAB appearing below are fictional. Any similarity, stated or implied, to actual chemicals is purely fictional.

* * *

I met again with** theGardenGnome**, and again she gave me a thumb drive. I hesitated, then carefully passed on a concern readers seem to have: "Ma'am, our readers are wondering about Nell's love life: who she married, whether she's happy."

She stiffened, she leaned forward in her chair, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. Through the steam of her Lapsang Souchong tea, she growled, "My stories are career advice for one of the most talented young ladies I have ever worked with. Finding the right path for someone of such talent will make the whole country a safer place. Readers looking for romance can rest assured that the _NCIS: LA_ section of _FanFiction_ is a wonderful pheromone-fueled whirlpool of romance. If that's not enough, they can read mysteries by Georgette Heyer. Myself, I prefer _All the Small Things About You_, by **Paigee Yovkoff**, _Tis the Season_, by **Kavi Leighanna**, and _Someone to Watch Over Me_, by **duskbutterfly**. I'm writing career advice. Romance can wait."

"So, no hints at all?"

"What's important to me is that Nell can have a happy marriage, not who else or what else it involves! So just post the damned story, will you?"

Duly chastised, I'll report here the file's contents.

* * *

A Typical Day at the Office, by **theGardenGnome**

January 2019, Washington, DC

"It's too early in the morning to be so frazzled," Nell growled. "Mike's late for preschool again and the president of Mexico arrives in town tomorrow." Her husband had already left for NCIS. His arriving late would have occasioned even more grief from Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. Even the self-made title pissed Nell off, but beyond that, bachelor Tony just didn't understand the complications of starting the day for a two-career family. That brought on enough stress, but Tony also had a disagreeable tendency to haze the new guy in the office, even after three years. Nell felt for her husband.

The situation looked little better for Nell, though. In Los Angeles her skill and intelligence had earned the attention of the right people, so Uncle Sam sent her back to school at the Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island. There she studied mostly Economics, Geography, Psychology, and History. At first, Nell felt nervous and rusty in the classroom after so many years in tech fields, but then her memorization skills kicked in and she'd taken to classes like a duck to water. After she'd worked at the National Security Council for only three years, she had been entrusted to write a white paper on shipping through the Northwest Passage, to brief the speechwriters on tropical diseases, and she was putting the finishing touches on a study group on the worldwide trade in pirated entertainment.

As Mike trundled down the sidewalk, he slipped on some ice, and his bottom landed in a puddle. Nell grimaced as she shared Mike's pain, then she rolled her because this would make her even later, but she recovered before Mike could see it. As Nell let him back into the house, Mike asked, "Mommy, did I pick a bad day to fall in a puddle?"

"Mikey, Mikey, Mikey," she said, kissing him on the forehead after each word. "There aren't any good days to fall in a puddle. She checked for injuries, more for show and to reassure him with her touch than because the fall was at all dangerous. "We'll just change your pants and be on our way. Should we get out the blue ones or the green ones?" A little later, when Mike was in dry pants and she'd followed the spider-man band-aid with a kiss on a barely-visible scrape, she said, "Okay, Little Man. We're set to go again. Please be careful where it's slippery."

In the car, Mike tried to teach her a new song they were learning for their Martin Luther King Holiday presentation. His teacher had set some text of the _I Have a Dream _speech to music, but Mike didn't know the words and Nell didn't know the notes, so to avoid frustration they sang _The Wheels on the Bus _and the alphabet song instead.

"Mommy, will you be at our big show?" he asked.

"Sure! I have next Monday off, so if the weather's nice we'll go for a long walk. You'll get to see a memorial to Dr. King, and get to see where he said those words!"

"What words?"

"The words to the song you're singing, '_I Have a Dream, Today.'_ Then on Tuesday, Daddy and I are both coming to your show. Do you remember dinner last night, when he said how much he was looking forward to it?" As she said it, she felt glad she and her husband had each been able to pull a weekend coverage shift so they could go to Mike's preschool show. _'I can't forget to send a thank you, email to Carla,'_ she reminded herself. Carla worked at the Latin America desk and had agreed to cover for her. The show was so important that she wanted nothing disrupting the day, including a forgotten favor. An email would be less hassle than a card, and would be a timely reminder. After listing the things to look forward to in the coming week, they spent the rest of the trip playing _I Spy_, looking for the letters of the alphabet in the shop signs on each side of the street.

After Nell dropped Mike off at preschool, she headed to her office near the White House. As soon as she arrived, her assistant, Bob Harriot, hailed her. Following her through the maze of cubicles, he sputtered, "Nell, thank goodness you're here! There's a threat to the dam on the Rio Grande at Elephant Butte Reservoir in New Mexico. A group of environmental terrorists called the Rio Grande Warriors promises to blow it up. It threatens only a few towns downstream from it, but we'd lose all the water it holds and the capacity to catch the spring runoff. New Mexico and Texas would have a drought before the summer even started. Here's their press release. It mentions something about hermaphroditic catfish, too. They expect the pulse of water to take out the Caballo Dam downstream from it, too." Nell scanned through the press release.

_The Rio Grande flows south out of the Elephant Butte and Caballo reservoirs, and when it leaves New Mexico it turns southeast, becoming the Texas-Mexico border as it passes between El Paso, Texas and Juarez, Mexico. An unusual pollutant called HCAB (see figure 1.) is in the Rio Grande near the El Paso-Juarez crossing, causing female catfish to develop both male and female sex organs. (See figure 2.) We, the _Rio Grande Warriors_ will protest against Mexican environmental regulations by blowing up the Elephant Butte dam. That way, we will wash the pollutant downstream, draw attention to US companies exporting pollution to countries with lax environmental regulations, and force the issue onto the agenda during tomorrow's state visit._

Nell realized that the extra water would simply dilute the pollutant and spread it out, making it harder to clean, that the dry streambed would absorb most of the water, and that the blast of water would spread out and—Nell guessed—raise flows by just twenty percent by the time it reached El Paso, 120 miles downstream. She decided they were dealing, not with a group of responsible land stewards, but with a group of publicity-hungry yahoos.

Next, she looked at the video the State Police had taken of the march on the dam crest. It looked like a standard protest, people walking in a loop carrying posters, but two things caught her attention. First, they marched in the middle of the desert, and second, the posters showed an oddly anthropomorphic catfish: Standing upright, with whiskers, six-shooters, sombrero, and a bikini. Their non-PC chant, too, set this march apart, "AC/DC catfish! AC/DC carp!" All this went to confirm her 'yahoo' assessment.

If the eco-terrorists were right, then HCAB indicated deeper environmental dangers. She logged into her computer and started researching the issue. They thought that this strange chemical kept showing up as a trace in water samples downstream from El Paso and a few checks confirmed that allegation. HCAB polluted the water downstream, but not upstream, from El Paso and Juarez.

She looked at the structure for HCAB, the chemical that had suddenly become her adversary. She caught her breath and thought about what she knew, very little besides the fact that the name was _'Bach'_ spelled backward. She knew that for monitoring to detect the chemical in the river, even in trace amounts, it had to be synthetic.

She remembered the dictum of the National Security Advisor. "Outsource your omniscience! If you don't know a topic, call someone who does."Aaron Herbert certainly qualified. He had lived in her building her first year, and they'd become friendly rivals at school, ended up graduating one-two in the class.

"Hi, Aaron, it's Nell Jones."

"It's been a while. What's up? When I was at your wedding, you were at the Naval War College.

"That's nothing compared to you. Full fellowship to the University of Wisconsin, a couple patents for promising new medicines, and now a full lab at the University of Florida. Not too shabby, _Herr Docktor Professor_ Herbert!" Nell tried to change the subject. "Listen, I'm with the National Security Council in Washington…"

"What? That's quite a career path, TV station to NSC in just ten years! How'd you manage that?"

"'It's complicated,' as they say. I'll tell you sometime." Nell took a second and let her voice change from friendly to businesslike. "Anyhow, I'm calling about a pollutant we're seeing in the Rio Grande."

"Which one is it, Nell?" Aaron's curiosity came through the connection.

"I don't recognize it. All I know is that it's called HCAB, and may affect sex characteristics in fishes. Can I send you the press release I'm working from?"

"Sure." So Nell used her camera phone to take a picture of the press release and another zoomed in on the chemical structure of HCAB.

"Okay, got it. Let me take a look. Can I call you back in a few?"

"Great, Thanks."

"Glad to." Then he switched to the teasing voice Nell was so familiar with, "It means I get to pull your little butt out of the fire—again!"

Nell lowered her voice to return the jibe. "I saved your butt more! Remember that time we aimed a laser pointer in the window of the dean's office?" Her voice warmed as her thoughts drifted to the recollection of all their college hijinx.

"I sure though we were gonna get it that time." He chuckled for a second, then said, "Talk to you soon," and hung up.

Nell caught her breath and looked longingly at the thumb drive with her white paper on the Northwest Passage, but realized she had nearly finished the pirated entertainment study group. She'd learned the hard way about too many irons in the fire, so she gritted her teeth and did what she knew she had to do, finish the study group first. She quickly reviewed the biographies of people she'd lassoed on to the committee so far. It turned out textbook publishers faced the same troubles protecting their copyrights, so they sat on the committee, beside representatives from consumer groups, the State Department and the music, television, and movie industries. Only video games remained, and Nell decided that for her committee, she could choose one of the many qualified people to put on it. She thought back to her time in Los Angeles and all the quiet times she'd played _Mario Kart_ in the Ops Center, and so _googled __Mario Kart_, found its publisher, and their parent company.

Once her research had worked its way up the corporate ladder sufficiently, she placed a call and ultimately tracked down the right person to speak with, Lynn Howard, Esq., director of their intellectual property department. Nell got her on board using the right mixture of flattery, appeal to patriotism, and appeal to self-interest. As Nell incorporated Lynn's biography into the packet for the White House protocol office, her lips turned in a subtle grin as she realized how much the psychology training from the Naval War College had helped in crafting something that amounted to a sales pitch to Lynn.

Bob Harriot flagged Nell down as she returned from the espresso machine in the break room and transferred a call to her. "Hi, Nell. It's Aaron again."

"Aaron! Thanks for getting back to me! I hope you weren't waiting too long."

"It wasn't too bad. I chatted with Bob. You've got your own assistant. Cool."

"Right. He's a good kid. He's a compulsive learner and a quick study. In fact, he reminds me of you a little bit, Aaron," Nell confessed.

"How can I get an assistant like that?"

"A junior Aaron Herbert? You will. You'll call them graduate students, work their fingers to the bone, and take credit for their insights!"

"Ouch. But seriously, where'd you find Bob?"

"He was studying at a small college near Syracuse when he wrote a senior project on the Syrian refugee crisis and Diaspora. The resulting paper impressed his professor so much that she mailed it here, where my boss just had to meet the author. One thing led to another and after he got a security clearance, a job offer was waiting on the other side. Anyway, what did you find out about the pollutant, HCAB?"

"Well, at first I thought HCAB looked like a synthetic testosterone that's just come out, but as I looked at it more, I realized it was related to Senpecia."

"Senpecia…What's that?"

"It's a prescription drug that helps middle-aged men re-grow their hair." Nell winced as she listened, thinking of her husband nervously watching his prematurely receding hairline.

"But when I looked at that structure, I found that HCAB looked slightly different from the drug. I realized it would be a by-product of making the Senpecia. Just like you can't make donuts without making donut holes, you can't make Senpecia without making this stuff. And, from the amount of HCAB in the river, I figure they must be making tons of the drug."

"What's your guess? How much of the pollutant is made for every—say—hundred pounds of Senpecia?"

"I'd say twenty pounds of HCAB for every hundred pounds of drug."

"Okay. That answers my questions. Ya got anything else for me?"

"Well, it sounds like HCAB affects sex organs in catfish, so it could do the same thing to people and animals, itself."

"Aaron, why can't you give me some good news for a change?" she growled, drumming her fingers on the desk in frustration.

"I'll tell you the good news from where I stand." The teasing tone returned to his voice. "It looks like it's your problem, not mine! Now go save that elephant butt—I mean Elephant Butte. Bye-Bye!"

"Ooh! I'll get you for this!" Nell growled. Then softening, she followed up, "But seriously, thanks. We'll talk later."

Aaron's tips gave Nell a hypothesis to guide her research, gave it focus and renewed vigor. It appeared a chemical plant nearby made the drug, and the waste flowed into the watershed. She quickly identified the drug company with the patents on Senpecia and their manufacturing sites, in Piscataway, New Jersey. But if that were the case, then why would HCAB appear in Texas or Mexico? Maybe the company told the regulators they made the drug in New Jersey, when in fact they saved money by making it in Juarez and dumping the waste in a storm drain that fed into the Rio.

To check, Nell accessed the mass balance paperwork the company filed with the EPA, muttering as the information came up on her screen. '_Every year they make ten tons of the drug. Here's two tons of HCAB delivered to a bonded disposal company. It's incinerated in Trenton. Ten tons of drug would make a hundred million pills. Seems about right—enough for three hundred thousand users worldwide. And, here it is –another company delivers enough of the supplies to make ten tons of the drug._' This mass balance looked right to Nell, and since it satisfied the chemists at the EPA, she tentatively decided the problem more likely lay somewhere else. She could check it more thoroughly later, if need be.

Since she ranked any hypothesis of corruption at the company as currently unlikely, she broke down and called them. Once that reasoning ruled out the easiest hypothesis, Nell broke down and called the company.

"Government Affairs Department."

"This is Nell Jones with the National Security Council, calling about your drug, Senpecia."

"How can I help you?"

"Well, the Rio Grande Warriors are threatening eco-terrorism about an environmental pollutant, HCAB, that looks—to us—like it might be a by-product of the synthesis of your Senpecia. It looks like it enters the river from Juarez, Mexico."

"I'm googling them now. Here they are. Ah, yes." He paused to compose himself, "Well, we don't, in general, comment on our synthetic methods and strategies."

To prepare herself for the tirade she was about to unleash, Nell imagined she were Callen interrogating a hostile witness. She drew herself up to her full height, leaned slightly forward, and allowed that body language to empower her voice as she launched into him: "Let's be clear on the situation here. We have a major act of eco-terrorism ready to happen at any minute. I've got the FDA and the EPA on speed-dial and although the mass balance paperwork works out for your Piscataway Park plant, that's either a symptom of FBI-level fraud—they're also on speed-dial—or there's a benign explanation for the pollution in Juarez. So which is it, and why should I believe you?"

That scraped the veneer off this pompous corporate flunky, so he paused and with far more contrition said, "Let me get back to you on this." After an exchange of phone numbers, the conversation ended and Nell paused to write up a few notes for her file.

On the way to the break room for still more coffee, Nell grumbled about this guy who would do nothing to stop an act of terrorism, simply to protect corporate secrets. The experience with Senpecia rep had soured her on big pharma so much that she thought about all the other drug companies outsourcing their manufacturing to the Third World to avoid environmental regulations. _'Maybe the environmentalists have a point about "exporting pollution," even if eco-terrorism techniques are stupid and counter-productive._' Neither the coffee, nor the stroll, nor the diversion improved Nell's mood, for on the way back she grumbled instead about society's infatuation with youth.

As soon as she got back, the phone rang again. "Ms. Jones, thank you for bringing this to our attention. Piscataway Park, New Jersey is the only place we manufacture Senpecia and, as you said, the mass balance on the waste works out there, but we've been having trouble with counterfeit drugs in Latin America. This evidence makes it look like Juarez could be the center of the counterfeiting operation. How can we help you?"

"This is the stage where we pass it over to the FBI and State Department. Just send me regulatory information about Senpecia and its by-products—oh, and the information you have about counterfeit drugs. The FBI will work with the _Federales_ to shut down the counterfeiters and be in touch with you with updates."

He grunted, which Nell thought signified his approval. "That will work," he replied.

"The State Department will bring it up in the technical-level talks going on during tomorrow's state visit. As for the eco-terrorists, we'll arrest them for threatening terrorism, and use this to try to convince everybody else that they don't have to blow things up to solve the world's problems."

"Great, but if you could keep from mentioning Senpecia and hermaphrodism at the same time, it would help."

Nell still stung from his indifference to the fate of an important reservoir, so she cut him off with a curt, "I'll think about it," and she hung up without any of the usual pleasantries.

Nell cleared her desk of the paperwork the morning had generated. She wrote a memo for her own file so she'd remember what happened and to protect herself if anything went sideways later on. She worked up e-mails to the FBI and State Department to get the ball rolling, and she wrote a thank-you note to Aaron on official stationary. At the bottom of the pile sat a new invitation to a performance at the White House, this one by the year's Tony nominees. She knew how much she and her husband would enjoy it, but didn't want to pass up a night at home with Mike. So, decision made, she walked to Bob's cubicle. She leaned in, casually hiding the tickets behind the partition she leaned against. "Hey, Bob, did you get invited to that thing for the Tony nominees?"

"Nope…. Wait a minute. What thing?"

"It's a reception and performance called _'The White House Welcomes,' _I think. So, do you like musicals?"

"I'm okay with them, but my girlfriend's fanatical."

"Well then, I think you two will enjoy these." And she splashed the tickets onto his desk with a flourish.

It left Bob speechless. "And—and—and they'll be okay with this?"

"Sure. Tickets to these things get passed around a lot. We'll just have to alert the Protocol Office and the Secret Service. Basically, she'll get a low-grade security clearance."

"And your husband won't mind missing out?"

"Nope, he's holding out for the White House reception when the Lakers win the championship. You know how they do a photo-op with each championship team."

"He's gonna have a long wait, then. Knicks all the way!"

"I'll let you two sort that out. Guy things," she muttered. As she returned to her office, Nell smiled at Bob's wide-eyed gratitude, and savored the chance to spread a little romance around.

For the first time since arriving, Nell could pause long enough to catch her breath and collect her thoughts. She realized that all she really needed was to hear her husband's voice over the line. "Hi, Hon. Busy there?"

"'Bout the same, Nell. We've got only one case, so it's not too bad. Looks like a drug case, so it won't be headed your way. How 'bout for you?"

"We prevented some eco-terrorism today, and this was a weird one. It never gets old! Do you remember Aaron Herbert from our wedding?"

"The chemist? He's a good guy."

"I got a chance to call him."

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?" The speed of the transition and the underlying note of jealousy startled Nell, but four years of marriage had accustomed her to this quirk of his, at least slightly.

"Nothing in particular, I just got my head above water on that crisis, and wanted to vent."

"Vent?" he asked. "You prevented an act of eco-terrorism. What could be wrong with saving the world?"

"You're right, and I took care of the Copyright Piracy Study Group during my down time. It's just that the eco-terrorism came up right as I needed to finish up the briefing on tropical diseases."

"Remind me. What's the deal there?"

"Well, with global warming, more of the continental US will be favorable for tropical diseases, so the President's speaking to a molecular biology conference next week. So guess who has to give a speech to the speechwriters tomorrow." Only recently had she overcome the intimidation of that irony. "Then there's that report on the Northwest Passage. Bob just pulled together the bibliography for that."

"You sound overwhelmed. You're getting a backrub tonight."

"Thanks, but it'll have to be one of your short ones. After that, I'm staying up late with these projects."

"I guess that has to be the plan. You'll get the full treatment later." Although regret filled his voice as he said it, Nell also heard the sympathy, respect and pride he felt.

"I'm looking forward to it already."


	7. Resolution

A giant Thank-You to my beta reader, **SilverSentinal21**, who's been enormously patient.

I don't own NCIS: LA or its characters.

Los Angeles, March 2013:

Monday had been a tough day, so when Nell got home, she hastily made a turkey sandwich and loaded the rest of the plate with an artisan kosher pickle and mass-market chips. She unlocked her laptop and went straight to _fanfiction_, hoping for some escape and relaxation. She clicked through her favorite stories, where she found only one author had posted a new chapter. She read that as she ate her sandwich. After that, she looked over her favorite authors, all of whom had spent the weekend frustratingly quiet. One of them had started a new story, but the one chapter lasted only through her pickle and chips. She braced herself to run a search in _fanfiction _on herself. As she went to the kitchen for Oreos, she decided not to include the M ratings.

The search generated only a few new stories, and Nell found herself talking to the computer—or the authors—as she looked through the results. "_Me dating Callen… Me dating Eric… Me dating Tony DiNozzo… That's just weird! Calleigh Duquesne from 'CSI: Miami' replaces Kensi as Marty Deeks' partner. That should serve him right! How did it come up in a search on me? Oh, here it is: I get sent to Miami!"_After she'd read a few paragraphs, she tried out the look. "_Well it looks, Lieutenant Kane_," and she took another bite of Oreo, "_like Miami's got a new breed of lawman_."

After she recovered from her giggle fit, she got a snifter of Drambuie and plowed on through the search results. "_Good grief, people! Would you just stay out of my bedroom?_" After her frustration settled down a bit, she read on. "_Here's one. What's this? One author posting stories by another author—about me... This is weird…I better go back and read all three stories_."

Nell spent the next forty-five minutes in a whirlwind of mixed emotion, trying to puzzle out what the stories were saying. She had to interrupt her reading and re-reading. She had stared so hard at the screen she needed an evening round of eye drops. Finally, she went to bed with her mind confused and her stomach in knots, wondering whether Hetty had a problem with her current work.

Tuesday morning's leisurely pace gave her space to avoid Hetty and time to quietly ruminate on her discovery. At noon, she implemented the plan she had formed: The surf report predicted bad waves, so she caught Eric and casually asked, "Hey, what are your dinner plans? I was thinking of celebrating the time change by having a dinner picnic on the beach. You interested?"

Eric's shoulders squirmed in excitement."Well, I was trying to decide whether my dinner plans involved _Marie Callender _or _Mrs. Paul_, so this sounds like an improvement!"

"You flatterer!" she teased. "I rank ahead of something you fish out of a microwave? Gee, thanks!"

"Nell! I said it was an improvement!" his volume rising slightly in frustration. More quietly, he continued. "I shouldn't have to say that it was a real big improvement," he grumbled.

Nell relented, and with a grin, she said, "Alright, I'll let you off the hook… this time."

A bright smile lit up his face. "Thanks! Anything I should bring?" he asked as he pulled his shoulders back in excitement.

"This is all an impulse. Why don't we stop by the market on our way there?" As she turned away, her lips curved into an enigmatic smile.

* * *

That evening, over tortellini salad, she told him what troubled her. "I got a surprise last night. I was reading _fanfiction dot net_, and came across some postings by **NCISNewbie**, who had apparently met with Hetty. She asked them to post three stories about me! I know it was Hetty." Really fired up now, she barreled on. "She used the pen name **theGardenGnome**, and the East Germans always called her _'Gartenzwerg,' _and that's what that translates as. And they're set in the future. The nerve!" Nell's fork vented all the frustration she felt upon four innocent tortellini. "Why does this **NCISNewbie** get told about my future before I do? And what is Hetty doing scripting my future out in the first place? I don't know who I should be maddest at: Hetty, or, or …"

She paused for a second, and her tone changed from anger to confusion. "I don't know! I know I don't want to be rooting around Chernobyl six years from now, though! If that's what life in the field is like, I'm not willing to go there: it seemed so cold and lonely, and everybody else was getting the credit for my hard work." The waves were peaceful and rhythmic, yet the turmoil in Nell's mind kept even her breathing in jarring syncopation.

"Wait a minute, Nell. Bring me up to speed, here. What were the stories like?" Eric asked in confusion.

Nell briefed him on the stories; with the same tone of voice she used briefing the team in ops. "Well, in the first one, I'm an agent in deep cover and near Chernobyl I find a shipment of girls being sold into human trafficking. Then, there was a story about my husband and me with the American Consulate in Shanghai, and I helped stop a Chinese and North Korean cyber-attack on the US."

"Cool!" Eric sounded impressed, but then his brows furrowed in worry. "But wait, what was your husband like?"

"It never really said, but he was doing cyber security stuff, too."

Eric reached for a piece of driftwood near their blanket. As he hurled it into the nearby dune, he let the spray of sand blast away the images in his mind of even a fictional Nell far away and sharing her life with someone else. His frustration vented, he prompted further. "That's two. You said there were three stories she wrote about you?"

"Yeah, in this last one, I was with the National Security Council. I sorted out an international patents and pollution dispute with Mexico." Here, she gave a little smile, part pride, part—just perhaps—wishful thinking. "There was a pharmaceutical waste problem, and I figured out why: prevented environmental terrorists from blowing up a dam."

Eric resisted the temptation to ask about her love life in that story. He figured his curiosity grew from the same perverse desire that had Nell reading about herself in the first place. Instead, he asked when they were set.

"That's the strange part. They were all set in January, 2019. How could I do three amazing things on three different continents in the same month?"

Eric smiled in relief, for Nell's voice had returned from the tone of outrage to the familiar puzzle-solving they used in Ops. "Maybe you're not supposed to. Maybe Hetty's just outlining possible outcomes for you."

"I guess that explains it. In one of the stories, I have a daughter, but in another, it's a son. Hetty's not careless. She wouldn't do that by mistake." And although she thought she knew the answer, she had to ask, "But why is she writing, and how did she know I'd read it? Did you tell her I read fanfiction?"

Eric looked down and started rummaging through the bag for the cheesecake. By the time he'd found fresh forks, his blush had subsided a little bit. That one blush in the dying sunset justified this whole picnic.

Rather than cop to Nell's accusation directly, Eric changed the subject: "Now that you mention it, this isn't the first career-related thing that Hetty's done lately. First, you've been in the field more, second, she was grilling my pretty hard about you a few weeks ago, and third, her friend showed up from the White House."

"That was when you told her? During that 'grilling'?"

Eric promptly folded to Nell's interrogation. There was no point in denying it any longer. "Umm… yeah." He tried to give his charming smile, but it turned into his nervous smile.

"What do you think she's doing? Is she dissatisfied with my work? Trying to ease me out?" she asked nervously.

Eric put into his voice all the reassurance he could offer. "No way! I told her only good things. She must have gone to a lot of effort to write those stories and hunt down somebody doing fanfiction. Besides, she set you up to meet the President. She wouldn't be doing that if there were a problem!"

"Well, why, then?"she murmured as she cocked her head in puzzlement.

While watching a retiree leaving her footprints in the wet sand, Eric voiced his thoughts. "Nell, maybe she's the one thinking of your career, trying to get you to think about it too. Not so much pushing you out as opening doors up...Have you thought about what you'd like to be doing, say, six year from now?"

Nell spoke slowly as she thought through her answer. "I've never had much time to think about it, but her stories did get me thinking. NCIS stretches me, but it's starting to get routine, and jobs are moving people around more than our parents' generation. But it feels like I just got here. There are a lot of people who've been with NCIS longer than I have. You're more eligible to move up than I am."

"Right. For a straight NCIS techie career, I might be ahead—or, ummm—I'd have seniority," he said trying to pull the foot out of his mouth.

"So I can't leave until you do?"

"That's not what I mean at all." Eric reacted to the sting of yet another false accusation. "In fact just the opposite! You—there's so much you can do! Our interests are so different that you could follow a completely different career from mine. In only one of those stories would I do what you were doing: the one in China. You're much more well-rounded than Eric-the-techie." He decided to inject some humor into the situation, so he repeated the joke his college roommates had told about him. "If it doesn't have surf wax or a microchip, I won't know what to do with it."

"What about me, Eric? I don't have surf wax or a microchip?" she asked with mock hurt.

"My point exactly," he replied ruefully, and Nell gently laughed at the painful truth of that statement.

Nell raked her hand through the sand as she gathered her thoughts. "What do you think I ought to do, Eric?"

Unconsciously, Eric allowed his hand to mimic Nell's, playing in the sand. "Maybe the start is just to listen to Hetty. She's the one who wrote those stories, so she can tell you why, and help you think about your long-term goals."

"Are you pushing me to transfer? To sacrifice my happiness and any family I may have for the country?" The pitch of her voice raised and her words came out clipped and harsh, hinting that her anger lurked just below the surface nearly ready to explode.

"No! Good grief, No!" Eric raised his hands in surrender, and then he continued more calmly. "In a couple of the stories, you actually had a family. Maybe Hetty thinks she can help you find ways to find the balance that works for you. Just listen to her."

Nell stabbed at her plastic plate with such force two of the tines broke off her plastic fork. "Why should I listen to her? I got through the University of Chicago in three years with straight A's when I was just eighteen. Got a Masters at Cal Sci. a year later! Even Owen Granger treats my IQ like a state secret! I'm smart enough to figure this out on my own!"

"I'm not saying you're not smart, I'm just saying this takes a different intelligence." It took about fifteen seconds for Eric to calm down. "Look, you just asked me what to do, and I'm stumped too. What you need is advice from someone with experience. Anna worked for Hetty, and she turned out okay. Hetty probably had the contacts to make that happen."

A hint of accusation colored Nell's voice. "Are you saying Anna only got on that career track because Hetty pulled the strings?"

"No way. Hetty or no Hetty, you don't get to be the link between the President and the CIA without being the best in your field. We all need contacts. Hetty has a real skill for finding talent, and she'll work to help those who have earned her respect. All I'm saying is I really think you should talk to Hetty." Nell found a piece of beach grass to tear up while considering this, and after about a minute Eric changed his approach. "How about this: Talk to your mom about the situation. She's certain to be on your side, certain to give you good advice."

"But she thinks I work at a TV station." She paused and thought some more. "This TV producer cover is getting old. Sometimes I wish I could 'come clean' with my family, let them know what I'm really doing."

"Do you think Anna's still keeping her job secret from her family? Do you think the Nell in each of Hetty's stories has to keep it secret?" Sensing no serious resistance, Eric prodded some more. "Most importantly, is that something that will influence any decision you make?"

Meekly, she answered, "That… that I'll have to think about."

So Eric let here think. Nell watched a dog frolicking in the surf and it brought a smile to her face. Seeing her relax, he decided to press on. "As for talking to your mom about Hetty wanting to help, that's not a problem. Just tell her that your boss wants to give you advice, maybe even help set you up for a better position. It's the same thing you'd say if you were at a TV station."

"Yeah, but Mom's just so…normal, ya know what I mean? You and Hetty: you're smart enough to understand me. You guys are my contact with the world. You guys and Nate helped me find a place where I'm stretched, where I don't have to 'keep my light under a basket,' like they say. My mom—she thinks I'm on a path to being a local news anchor, but I think she'd like nothing better than if I turned out…I dunno… a High School Science teacher back home."

Skepticism pulled Eric's voice into a higher register. "Really, Nell? That's what your mom hopes for you? Your parents sent you off to the University of Chicago, early, so you could be a schoolteacher?"

"I don't know, actually, but I do know how much stress my intelligence caused for my family." Real remorse shaded Nell's voice, but it concealed so much beneath the surface that Eric could never know. Nell remembered dragging her mom out to Johns Hopkins for "genius camp" for three years in a row, starting at age twelve. The time Mom spent in her apartment through the first three months of college served, ostensibly, to protect Nell in the new environment, but Nell had the sneaking suspicion that it acted more in the form of a trial separation. "It wasn't that I did anything I shouldn't—drugs or boys or booze or anything—but that I knew things I shouldn't. I thought about things nobody else was thinking about. I came to conclusions nobody else was ready for but I was naive enough to say them as absolutes and piss people off: people who were important to me." Her voice trailed off as she cringed and thought about some of her youthful excesses.

"'_Aye, there's the rub_,' "she thought to herself. "_My smarts and my smart mouth were the reason I didn't act up with boys—or even date. A razor-sharp wit is a vicious weapon to keep the boys away. When I got here, the same thing nearly ruined things between Eric and me. And now…and now it seems my IQ could ruin things again, just by forcing me to move._"

"Eric, What about us? Our 'thing'?"

Nell's timid question caught Eric completely by surprise. He shook his head with resignation and confusion. "I really don't know,"gentle warmth and caring filled his voice as he said, "and I'm just one voice of the two that you should listen to about our 'thing.' What you want is just as important, in fact, more important to me." He barreled on resolutely, onto ground he knew held dangers, but he knew he had to say it. "Whatever you do, don't let our 'thing' take you away from doing what's right for you. I hope nothing stands in the way of your happiness." The warmth in his tone matched the supportiveness in his words.

As Nell thought, she picked up a handful of sand and let it drain out to form a cone. In the past, she had thought about the effect her career would have on the man in her life only in passing, and only in the abstract. Generally, "career" and "man" lived in two separate corners of her mind. Similarly, before that, you could put a ball gown and a fireman's hat on the same paper doll. That game of mix-and-match had no place in real life. The consequences of that simple, shocking realization stretched out before her. Eric's declaration made clear the special kind of man she'd have to find if she were to rise to her potential in the rarified air Hetty's stories let her think about reaching. "_What on earth do you think Anna's husband is like?_" she asked herself.

After a few more minutes contemplating the waves and watching a freighter steaming out of Long Beach, Nell broke the silence. "Hey, listen. I'm getting a little cold. Maybe let's call it a night. I'll need to get up a little early tomorrow to call my mom. There's a two-hour time difference to Minnesota, so I'll call before work." They divided up the leftovers, and fell into a friendly system of collecting their trash and folding the blanket. They cooperated so well on these domestic tasks that it would have surprised an outside observer to see them get into separate cars. After they loaded up the cars, though, Nell pulled Eric in for a hug. As she enveloped herself in his arms, she said, "I think I put you through the wringer tonight, so thank you so much for listening. You've helped a lot."

Surprise made Eric pull back just enough to look her in the eye. His lips curved into a lopsided grin. "I was glad to. Thanks for inviting me. See you tomorrow."

Nell confirmed, "See you tomorrow."


	8. Plans

**AN: Many thanks to my beta reader, SilverSentinal21. Even if this doesn't meet their standards, my conversations with Sentinal have shaped and improved this immensely.**

Los Angeles, March 2013:

The next morning, Nell woke early, tangled in her sheets. All through her shower and bagel, she thought over Hetty's stories and her conversation with Eric._ "Only clouds have silver linings.… In this line of work, anything that looks like good news is just bad news laying a trap…. What's Hetty's game here?"_ The thoughts tumbled through her mind as she braced herself for the call she would make.

"Hello, Mom?" No longer did Nell sound like the bouncy, hyper-competent intelligence analyst she had been until last week. Rather, she sounded like she was twelve years old again calling from the nurse's office.

"Nell-Belle! What a surprise. How are you?" She paused. A Wednesday morning call raised red flags of trouble. "Is everything okay there, Sweetie?"

"Relax, Mom! Things are fine here." The tone of cheery greeting evaporated. "—At least mostly they're fine."

"'Mostly fine.' That doesn't sound good, especially from you, Nell. You keep things so bottled in. Remember that time when you were in fifth grade and…"

"It's not like that, Mom! It may actually be good news. You remember my boss, Hetty?"

The farm report vanished from the background noise coming over the line. "Nice older woman? Even shorter than you?"

"That's right, although I wouldn't exactly say 'nice.' " Nell had long thought of Hetty as a veteran of the Cold War and the Bureaucratic War with the skills of a ninja.

"You didn't get on her bad side, did you?"

Nell nearly did a spit take with her coffee. "Mom! No! It's just that I wouldn't want to get on her bad side. And would you quit interrupting? I have to leave for work soon!"

Rebuked, Mrs. Jones prompted, "Well what happened, then, Nellie?"

Nell took a breath and another sip of coffee, and then gave the answer she'd been rehearsing. "It seems like she wants to give me career advice. Maybe wants to help me move up with the company or find someplace else for me."

"That sounds like great news! I'll have to tell your father!" Her lips formed an involuntary grin. Nineteen hundred miles away, Nell could _still_ hear the tizzy she'd sent her mom into.

"But what if there's a problem?" Nell's pessimism came nearly automatically.

"What's the problem with that? She knows the company and the industry better than you do. Why not trust her?"

Nell used her finger to eat the last smidge of cream cheese off her plate. "Sometimes she can be underhanded. Even the way she told me she wants to help was underhanded."

"But trusting her has always worked out in the end, right?" The tone Mrs. Jones meant as cheerful and encouraging sounded, to Nell, more like naivety.

"I guess you're right. She also seems so—I dunno—motherly." Now her finger pushed bagel crumbs in circles on the plate.

Mrs. Jones couldn't see the problem, and her confusion came over the connection. "Motherly—that's a good thing."

"Right. It's just…" She'd finally found the issue, so the realization let the words come out in a tumble. "It's just I don't want her to replace you."

Mrs. Jones let out a soft laugh. "She won't replace me. She wants to be a mentor, not a mother. Anyhow, you're so far beyond what I could help you on that you need a new mentor." Nell could hear the pride in her mother's voice.

"So, umm… what do you think I should do, Mom?"

"I'd say listen to her. You've got a good head on your shoulders, Nell. You can figure out whether she's got another agenda with you, and whether it's something you don't want to sign up for. Hear her out, but whatever happens, give me a call tomorrow." Minnesota's easiest easy-listening station grew into the background. "Oh, and any progress with your friend, Eric?"

"_Mom!_ Give it a break!" In her exasperation, she had drawn the word "Mom" out into two syllables.

Mrs. Jones sounded optimistic. "If you get promoted, would you work together? If not, a relationship wouldn't affect work."

"Right, but if I get transferred, we'd lose whatever we could start... Maybe it's too late. Maybe we've already lost out," she added with weary resignation.

"Or maybe it's time to find out whether or not you two hit it off," It sounded to Nell like her mom had already mapped out a path through career worries to much-anticipated grandchildren. "Promise me that you'll call tomorrow?"

"You've got it, Mom. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you!"

"Love you too, Nellie."

* * *

Wednesday presented a simple case, for a change. The aircraft carrier _Calvin Coolidge_ docked with drugs aboard and the Special Agent Afloat needed a hand investigating the ring of corruption behind it. Fortunately, it didn't go too far up the chain of command. That evening, Hetty watched her agents leave the Mission, talking as they went.

Marty Deeks threw his fists up in the air. "Thank goodness for quickies."

Kensi elbowed him in the ribs. "What, is that what your lady-friends always say?"

"Probably not, but that was Ollie North's view," Hetty muttered.

Behind her, four eyes expanded in surprise at what their ears had overheard. Nell and Eric could add this disgraced Reagan-era operative to their Hetty List. When the shock wore off, Eric prodded Nell out of their not-quite-hiding place and into action. "Text me later."

She caught up to Hetty from behind. "Hetty, do you have a little time to discuss something?"

Hetty took a sip of tea. "Certainly, my dear. Is it a problem?"

"I don't think so. It's about a hobby we apparently share."

A smile of understanding came over Hetty's face. "Oh, I see. Well, give me ten minutes then we'll meet in the parking lot. I know just the place for us to talk."

Twenty minutes later, Nell's red Mini followed Hetty's Jaguar convertible into the parking lot of a small neighborhood park. Hetty extracted a quilted shopping bag from her back seat and slipped her purse in alongside its contents. The north end of the park held a rose garden, the south end a play lot. As they strolled down one of the paths in the grassy no-man's-land between, Hetty spoke first. "So is this, perchance, regarding our mutual taste in fiction?" she asked.

"Yes. First, how did you find out?"

"My dear, that is a question about sources and methods." Hetty's tone suggested she was surprised by the impudence of the question.

Nell stepped in front of Hetty and released the torrent that had built since she'd read Hetty's stories. "'Sources and Methods!' That's what Granger says to pesky questions from congressional staffers. Is that all I am to you? Some whelp asking pesky questions?"

"No. Not at all, my dear. I only mean that's the less relevant question. Ask instead how to interpret the stories. Ask how they affect you." Hetty indicated the park bench where they had stopped, and Nell, exasperated, plopped down and huddled against the armrest.

Nell looked down, away from her antagonizer. "I interpret them as a script for my future, so they affect me by making me angry."

Hetty joined Nell on the bench, paying fastidious attention to the pleats at the knees of her pants suit. She withdrew from her bag two small bottles of Austrian sparkling water, which she set on the bench between them. Next came a blue-and-white cardboard box that she opened to reveal _paprenjak_, Croatian pressed cookies made with an odd mix of honey, walnuts, and black pepper. Offering one to a settling Nell, she prodded, "Think for a minute. How could you be three places at once? How could your child be a girl in one story and a boy in another?"

Hetty's implicit admission that she was the author finally allowed Nell to see what Eric had tried to say the previous night. "These are just possibilities. Things I could do."

"Right, they're all fiction, but was there anything impossible in any of the stories? Anything I wrote which you couldn't do?" Nell merely mouthed 'no,' so Hetty continued. "The egotistical geriatric in me would like nothing better than for you to stay here, become my go-to, my XO, if you will. But I know just how incredibly selfish I would be, putting my convenience ahead of your career—and ahead of the needs of our country." She opened the waters and handed one to Nell.

After this praise, Nell looked down at the bottle she held by her thigh. "But why me? I'm the newest member of the team. Why not help Kensi? Or Eric?"

"Miss Jones, I help the men and women under my charge in the ways that suit their needs and circumstances, and I do so in a way that preserves their privacy. That's the reason I employed the method I chose to reach out to you. The help I offer anyone and the methods I use are strictly between them and myself, unless they choose to make it public knowledge. If, tomorrow, you choose to tell the team what I've done that is your decision, but do not assume I'm not helping others because you can't see it." Nell stared at her shoes and a blush of shame bloomed on her cheeks.

Hetty reached out to take the young girl's hand. "Right now, everyone else is where they need to be, Nell. You well know that you're an extraordinary woman; not only because of your intellect, but also because of your vast reserve of strength and determination. You've progressed in your role at OSP far quicker than anyone, even I, ever imagined possible. That means you are one of the most challenging people I have ever attempted to guide in this work. One thing has become clear. If you are ever to reach the limits of your potential, you will have to move on from us."

"But I want—" her voice rose with determination. "I want to earn the position, whatever it is. To know that I'm there because I deserve to be."

"By earning my respect you have earned it. You've convinced me of your talent, convinced me of your gift." She gave a little laugh. "Besides, you can't imagine there's anything I could say that would get an idiot signed up at the NSC."

Nell gave a watery chuckle. "Thanks, Hetty. It's good to know you don't think I'm an idiot."

Hetty laughed, too. "Far from it." For a minute, the two sat on the bench in a silence finally companionable. "Tell me, was there anything in the tales that seemed unreasonable, beyond your abilities?"

"No, that's just it. I saw it could be me. It's just—it's just that some of those weren't what I'd like."

"And I should be offended that you liked one better than the others?" There was a hint of irony in her voice. "No! I wrote those stories so you could decide what you could like—and what you couldn't…. What are you leaning against?"

"Actually, Hetty, the first one." Nell spoke slowly and stared at a bottle cap by her shoe. "I know you've sent me into the field more lately, and I appreciate it, and, umm… I still have the FLETC application on my desk, but if that's what could happen with a life under cover after FLETC, then…"

"Yes, FLETC would prepare you for work abroad, including deep cover work, but it also prepares you for being a local agent, like the agents on our team."

"I think I'd have trouble doing that my whole life," Nell said reluctantly. "Sure, spies, arms dealers and drug traffickers are bad news, but in thirty years chasing them, I'd get kinda bored."

"There's always supervision."

Nell ran her right hand back and forth, along the armrest to her left for a few seconds. "You'll supervise—perhaps—thirty people during your career."

"You're my thirty-fourth."

"Someday you'll let one of us replace you—or try to. What happens to the other thirty-three? Or more!"

Hetty nodded in appreciation of Nell's logic, as if it were a particularly elegant chess move. "You could supervise other teams. My team, Gibbs' team, and the Red team are the cream of the crop at NCIS. Any of the other hundred teams with NCIS would be blessed—blessed to have a leader from here. Then there are the other agencies." Pride sounded in her voice, but after a pause Hetty changed the subject back. "What about the other stories? Could you imagine yourself in the Foreign Service, or at the NSC?"

"Well, I could imagine it, but—as a first glance—I'm not that much of a traveler. My parents are getting older, and I'd rather be closer to them. Is that wrong?" Nell caught herself folding her napkin into an origami albatross.

"Wrong? Goodness no," and she chuckled, but then grew silent as the memory washed over her of what she left unsaid. _'Cancer took my mother when I was under cover in Viet Nam. They had no way to extract me in time for her funeral. The last time I saw her was five months before she died. I never had the chance to say goodbye.'_ "Any other thoughts about your future?"

"I'll confess. This cover where I'm 'working at a TV station,'" she made air quotes around it, "is getting old. I'd like to be doing something my family can be proud of." Hetty cocked her head to contemplate this. The orphans she had mentored never had this problem. "They'd be proud if they knew I'd helped find a suitcase nuke left over from the Cold War or helped prevent an anthrax outbreak. But to tell them, I'd have to break cover, and I'd never do that without permission." After a minute's thought, Nell changed the topic. "Can you tell me a little more about Anna's work? I know she's a briefer for the President, but what is that like? Are there other briefers?"

"Yes, each member of the inner cabinet has a briefer, and there are a few agency chiefs that have one, too." The schoolmarm mode suited Hetty well, and it sounded like she reveled in it. "Don't confuse this with a Chief of Staff. It's not that you couldn't do that, it's just more political, typically a friend of the politician's from way back. Mainly, the briefer's job is to pass the information from the professionals to the politicians." She leaned in conspiratorially, "Anna told me she gets frustrated when they don't act on the concerns she passes on."

"I could see that."

More peacefully, now, they sipped the water and ate the cookies. "I acquired a taste for these in '76 undercover in the former Yugoslavia. One of my contacts came to Los Angeles, and I patronize her bakery for old-times' sake."

They watched a family walk across the park. The father pushed a stroller while his wife monitored a four-year-old as he darted like a spaniel from one diversion to another. Here he climbed a rock, there he shimmied under a log, and in the lawns he found a dandelion in bloom to present to his mother. Hetty thought with regret of the relationships that could never mature through romance to family. She'd lost two lovers to alternate postings, one to a promotion, and one to a Nicaraguan's bullet.

"On the other hand, I would miss the team. I've felt comfortable here, like I never could before."

Hetty watched Nell as Nell watched the family, so she made a shrewd, if brash, guess at Nell's thoughts. "Anyone in particular?"

Nell hated being forced to admit her feelings to anyone. She could barely manage to admit them to herself. For a moment she bit down on her lower lip as if to keep it from letting the secret escape. "Well, everybody, but mostly Eric." After his name left her mouth she looked at the grain on her armrest, before she felt Hetty's hand on her shoulder.

"Contrary to the trope of the lonely spy I wrote about in my stories it is fairly common for people in this life to have relationships and families like everyone else. I'll be honest, it's harder to make a family work in our world, but those who can are very, very blessed." The older woman paused to eat a sweet, spicy cookie. "Mr. Beale is an extraordinary young man, the type that was rare in my day and is only rarer today. He cares very deeply for you, I know. Since today seems to be my day for confessions I may as well tell you, you don't hide your own feelings as well as you think you do. In my view, you two would be one of the most stable pairs I've seen through the years."

It took Nell a while to recover from the shock of Hetty's logical jump. "But the rules! Before I started my first internship, one of my teachers told me 'never date a co-worker.'"

Hetty counted on her fingers as she continued the list. "or a foreign agent, or the subject of an investigation, or an informant, or a civilian, or a man with small feet, or a man shorter than you…" and they both broke into laughter as their shoes swung freely beneath the park bench. "The point is that if we crossed off our list everyone we 'shouldn't' date, there wouldn't be chemistry with any of the people left." She shook her head. "In our business, there are few people we can let down our guard for, so when we feel the spark with one of them, we owe it to ourselves to try."

"But the rules!" Nell repeated with raised voice. "I know employee handbooks have changed just since my internship, but still it shows up in the pop psychology magazines." She paused a second. "I've met Agent Gibbs only once, at the agency-wide readiness review last summer. One of the few things I know about him is that his Rule #12 is, 'Never date a co-worker.'"

"Yes, one of his relations ended in heartbreak, but it's not NCIS policy." She smirked. "Would you really tell Agent Hanna that his whole marriage is breaking Rule #12?"

Nell recoiled at the thought, but then capitalized on the connection. "Actually, that illustrates my point perfectly. Michelle has put her career on hold until their daughter is older, because she and Sam shouldn't be in the field at the same time."

Hetty shuddered as she contemplated the consequences. "That's true, but that's the choice they made, in part because she was an agent, rather than an analyst. Other couples can make other choices. My friends Valerie Plame and Joe Wilson left the CIA to become fiction authors and talking heads." She mentioned it casually, as if every career fair had a booth labeled 'talking heads.' "Admittedly, Dick Cheney's office blew their cover when he didn't like what Joe had written about invading Iraq, but still that's an option. The simplest option would be to arrange it so you two are far enough out of each other's chains of command not to qualify as co-workers."

"It's a chicken-and-the-egg problem, though, Hetty. I wouldn't want to transfer just so I can try dating someone here, but I can't date someone here because I haven't transferred." In frustration and resignation she balled up her napkin origami and ground it into her palm.

Hetty cocked her head—another slick chess move. "True enough, and that's why I take a more permissive line than Jethro. So here's my solution. Take a break from the pop psychology manuals," she waved her hands to banish them. "Don't overreact to the fate that befell the far-away agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Call it Hetty Lange's Rule #12 if you will. You may date a co-worker. But…" and she paused for effect and looked Nell straight in the eye, "this reprieve applies only for, shall we say, six months starting this Friday. Why? If you choose to go forward on a career move, within six months you will be transferred. You won't be co-workers. If you don't decide to transfer, we'll just monitor the situation: if the relationship puts the team at risk, we'll make adjustments."

Nell countered, "If the relationship puts the team at risk, it will already be too late."

"What do you mean?" As Hetty probed, she narrowed her eyes dangerously; she expected specifics.

"We could be making moon-eyes at each other during an op and miss an important detail. We could be angry at each other and stop working as a team. Someone could…" and her superstition stopped the thought, unvoiced.

"Do you think I didn't notice the way you and Mr. Beale interacted when the agents and I got back from the _Van Buren_ at Christmas? Do you think I didn't notice Mr. Beale's hurt when you gave your pager number to me, but not to him? Do you think you didn't put the team at risk then?" Nell recoiled at the implied rebuke. "You both are very professional, but your dating could put the team at no more risk than your not dating already does."

"Our relationship could…"

"Miss Jones, The Big One could come tonight and flatten us all, but should we let that fear guide our lives? No! We make the best in the face of that possibility. We seize the day!" To illustrate, Hetty reached up, then closed her hand in the air, as if seizing the day were as tangible as picking an orange, as sensuous as letting its juice run down her forearm.

Hetty had been on a rhetorical hot streak, but her volume dropped as her oration wound down. "Miss Jones, people always say, 'Don't do anything you'll regret.' To that I must add the converse. 'Don't regret anything you've left undone.' _Carpe diem_!"

Nell sat in the golden glow of the sunset, reviewing everything Hetty had said. The 'relationship stuff' had taken her by surprise, and any next step would be with Eric, but to Hetty she owed the insight into her career plans. So, after a minute, she squared her shoulders and firmed her voice. "I'm leaning against fieldwork, and so I'm leaning against FLETC. I think the path forward, then, is for me to look into the analyst side some more, probably through the Naval War College. Can you suggest any other ways to get the training I'd need to go to the next level?"

"Yes, but I have the best contacts at Newport." Ever practical, she added, "Keep in mind, the classes there start in September."

A smile of understanding crossed Nell's face. "Hence the six-month reprieve from Gibbs' Rule #12."

"You're catching on. Now go. Seize the day!" She pantomimed first shooing Nell away, then picking another orange.

A smile crossed Nell's face. "I will, Hetty. Thank you so much!" and after a hug, she bounced back to her car.

Hetty maintained a more leisurely pace, so she entered the parking lot just as Nell pulled her cell phone out of her Mini and stood beside the open door to place her call. Nell's bounced on her feet as she said, "Hello, Eric? Good news!"

Hetty smiled, turned away, and instead proceeded to the rose garden.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Nell stepped into O'Reilly's Cantina and, before her eyes had completely adapted to the lighting, she spotted Eric waiting for her at the bar. Her energy had not diminished since the phone call, so she practically dragged him to a vacant booth, ordering her beer on the way.

No matter how hard he tried, though, Eric couldn't bring himself to share Nell's enthusiasm. In fact, he found himself secretly cursing Hetty for taking his Nell from him, then cursing himself for calling her 'his'-a rockstar like Nell could never be owned. As she bubbled on about the timeline for her possible departure, though, his reproach turned inward for never having asked her out.

Nell's adrenaline finally wore off sufficiently for her to notice his melancholy. She tried to revive him by listing other people who had passed through Newport, but when even that didn't work, her monologue screeched to a halt. After a minute's uncomfortable contemplation she realized why Eric acted so 'down,' and just a few seconds later she realized why she felt so 'up.' The prospect of a new step in her career didn't excite her so much as the release from her self-imposed constraint about dating at work.

"And the best part is, that I get to thank you for it!" She did, leaning in to give him a kiss. Nell prepared to put all her excitement into the kiss but, before it could even start, Eric pulled away, pain—and even fear—in his eyes.

"Nell, stop. Please. I told myself that if you leave LA, I'll have to grit my teeth and go on, but this is hurting me too much right now, losing you like this. Losing you to one of Hetty's schemes. Losing you to my own cowardice, for never having asked you out. For never having risked my ego for the most wonderful, caring, funny, smart woman I have ever met. So please don't play with my heart. Just…please."

His passion left Nell all the surer of what she would ask of him. "Eric, stop. Let me apologize. I know I've rebuffed you in the past, and I know why. I was afraid of dating at work."

"So it's okay to have a 'thing' at work? … Even you admit it's a 'thing.' It's even okay to flirt at work, but it's against the rules to date?" He withdrew into self-reproach, first for interrupting her as she tried to apologize.

Nell looked down to acknowledge the contradiction. "That's sorta' what I used to think. Past tense. But Hetty steered me around that. Now, I know how crazy that was. Hetty let me see this as an opportunity. If you'd still like, we can try dating," Nell sounded nervous, "and if it works we can see where it takes us." A quirky smile started to form on Eric's lips, bringing confidence back to Nell's voice. "If it doesn't, you wouldn't have to see me after September. So, starting on Friday, I'm allowing myself to date at work." She leaned in and raised her eyebrows to prompt Eric.

Eric remained befuddled by the sudden change in the conversation, caught completely unprepared for Nell's invitation. Nell beckoned him again, and finally it sank in. He drew in a calming breath. "Nell Jones, may I take you to dinner this Friday night?"

"Eric Beale, I would like nothing better!" This time, when she leaned in for a kiss, Eric did nothing to rebuff it, so she put into it all the intensity accreted over three years of stolen glances and accidentally electric touches.


	9. A Date!

**A special thanks to Silversentinal21. Although they haven't checked over this chapter, their effort makes me a better writer.**

******Author's Note: I don't own NCIS: LA.**  


**Please Leave a review letting me know what you think.  
**

* * *

Driving home from the cantina, Eric drove more slowly than normal, but not because of the caution alcohol can sometimes cause, for they had each ordered only a single beer. Rather, the cause lay with the distraction as his mind raced, replaying the conversation that had somehow, miraculously, landed him a date with the rare and legendary Ununoctium. Then he started thinking about "the perfect place": that absolutely perfect restaurant for him to take Nell for their big date._ "Maybe something a little adventuresome, gotta keep it casual, so we don't have to spend the whole time talking. Like a dinner theater…or that medieval reenactment place... That's family friendly…a good place for a first date,_" his expression darkened and he rolled his eyes, "_…for a high schooler! Back to the drawing board._" A big sign for a restaurant called "_the Hindu Kush_" came up on his left. "_Hey, there's that Afghan place…. Or, I heard about an Ethiopian place, where you eat with your hands. Whoops…too adventuresome…Maybe classic French…too staid._" He found himself playing darts with the atlas in his mind. No matter where the dart would land, this fantasyland of TV stars and record producers had a matching restaurant. "_Moroccan! That could do it!_" His mind wandered across the Strait of Gibraltar. "_Better still, Spanish! I heard of this elegant place for paella!_"

He was so excited by the intrigue of the saffron-infused seafood dish that he pulled over, even though it was a rough neighborhood. (All caution was not lost, however, for he knowingly parked right in the field of view of Kaleidoscope's favorite traffic camera.) He was actually able to get the last reservation of the night. As soon as he got off the phone, his mind returned to overdrive. "_Shellfish. Awesome! Wait, oh shi—immy shake! What if she doesn't like shellfish? I think I heard they also make tapas. I _think_ we'll be fine._" Finally satisfied with his plans, he put on the playlist labeled "calming," pulled his mind out of overdrive, put the car into drive, and headed home.

* * *

Once the situation was settled for the team on Thursday, Eric looked over at Nell and carefully brought up the topic. "So…I'm really looking forward to tomorrow night."

"Me too." She looked at the hem of Eric's sleeve, rather than his face.

"Umm…One thing I wanted to check on, though. Umm… Do you like shellfish?"

"Love it. Is that a hint on where you're taking me?" As soon as the conversation turned to logistics, their voices became bubbly but casual.

"It is now…. Now that I know you'd like it. I made nine o'clock reservations. Will that be okay?"

"Fine. We can hang out here until we have to leave."

"Actually, can I pick you up at eight-thirty?" He brushed his hand across her shoulder.

"Sounds good." She caught his hand, still on her shoulder, and held it in her own. "Hmm. Which seafood restaurant? I'll just have to…"

"Use twenty questions? Yes, it's bigger than a breadbox," he laughed.

"I was thinking of using my feminine wiles." She brushed back her hair with exaggerated drama, a valiant attempt to illustrate. "It's that or I get to be surprised. Which would you recommend?"

"I don't think I could resist your 'feminine wiles.'" He shuddered as his mind raced through all the times he had caved to her subtly charming style. "I hope you're willing to be surprised. I think you'll like it."

"Okay, then. Surprise it is," and her hands returned to the keyboard.

That evening, as Nell made her way through the bullpen, Kensi called out, "Nell, are you interested in a foreign film tomorrow night."

"Sorry Kens, but can I take a rain-check on that?"

"Sure. Has something come up? Anything I should know about?" Benign questions, asked with a tone of genuine concern.

"Yes, something's come up. And no, you shouldn't know about it." And she smirked over her shoulder as she walked to Hetty's office.

* * *

Friday morning, Kensi knew everything she needed to know about Nell's plans when she spotted an oxford, coat and pants hanging in Eric's back seat. She had followed him into the Technicolor morning shadows of the parking lot at the Mission, the second and third people from the team to arrive. Still in the driver's seat, Eric paused to catch his breath before the big day, giving Kensi plenty of time to post herself between his car and Hetty's, blocking his exit. "So, first Nell begs out on a foreign film tonight, and then you show up with dress clothes hanging in the backseat. Could you possibly be less subtle?"

"I'm sorry," Eric's apology came so automatically he didn't look up to see Kensi smiling. Without extra coffee, Eric couldn't hope to face Kensi's accusations or to sort out her double negatives, so he just looked up with despair. She took pity on him, so she softened her expression to invite his trust. "I'm not good at this stuff. You've gotta help me, Kens."

"I'm just saying the day will go better if you get the clothes out of your car. If they stay hanging there, they'll act like a giant Facebook post, telling the team 'hot date tonight.' There's probably a garment bag in Wardrobe." She jogged to the entrance to the parking lot, checked the approaching traffic, and called over her shoulder, "Okay, Eric, the coast is clear."

He detached the coathangers from their hook and scuttled to the door, meeting Kensi there. As they stepped into the Mission, he exhaled in relief, but then they caught sight of their fear-inspiring leader, blocking their way with her familiar parade rest stance.

Kensi and Eric screeched to a halt. "Oh, hello, Hetty. Oh, errmm…Hetty, may I please hang these clothes in Wardrobe for the day?"

"Absolutely. 'Where better to hide a tree than in a forest?'" She inspected them. "What shoes do you plan to wear with these?"

"They're out in the car. They need to be comfortable."

She dismissed Kensi and summoned the clothes from Eric. "Bring them in. I'll meet you in Wardrobe."

Kensi tapped his shoulder and whispered to him as he left, "Let me know how it goes!"

By the time Eric arrived in Wardrobe, carrying his shoes in a grocery bag, Hetty had hung his clothes in a deep-blue canvas garment bag and stood examining a pair of dried and aged-looking shoes. "It's clear you've recovered from your visit to the vacuum test chamber better than these have."

Eric recoiled in horror. "Those are the shoes I wore? Please, don't remind me!"

"My point is, Mr. Beale, that you are a resilient, adaptable young man. Now, let's take a look." As she opened the bag, she concealed her revulsion. "Consider these instead," and she handed him a pair of expensive-looking Bruno Magli shoes that looked two notches more formal and $400 more expensive than he had been planning.

Eric's eyes grew wide as saucers as he inspected them. "These look so expensive. What I need needs to be comfortable."

"Yes, they are expensive, but what I find interesting is that you equate 'expensive' with 'uncomfortable.' Go ahead, try them on."

Hetty watched as his face changed from reluctance and fear to determination to ecstatic relief; and not once but twice, as if he had expected her to beguile him with the comfort of the left shoe, only for the right one to clamp down on his foot like a bear trap. When that, of course, didn't happen his face lit up again. Beliefs die hard, though, so Eric immediately marshaled his next objection. "But they need to be comfortable for hours, not just seconds."

Hetty laughed at Eric's stubbornness. "If you stagger your lunch with that of Ms. Jones, we can arrange for you to have a more extended 'test-drive.' Now change out of them." As he sat down to comply, she added with sultry impudence, "Our absence will be noticed." Eric couldn't help but laugh as she left.

By the time Eric emerged from the fitting room, detective Deeks had arrived and had splashed his wiry frame onto one of the sofas. Eric sidled up to Kensi at the coffee machine. "The fitting went fine."

"That's not what I meant, Goofball," and she gave him a head-slap. Clearly, Agent Gibbs and her father had had the same drill sergeant in Basic Training.

Deeks' voice echoed across the bullpen. "Oh, cool! Is it pick-on-Eric day?"

At lunchtime, Eric paused in front of one of the windows, staring out at the smog-brightened colors of the Los Angeles skyline and tentatively shifting his weight to evaluate his borrowed shoes. Kensi approached, double-checking that the rest of the team wasn't looking. "So where are you taking her?"

"_The Alhambra_, it's a Spanish seafood restaurant. Do you think she'll like it?" Eric asked as he studied the dust motes above her left shoulder.

"It sounds just right. If you're into Iberian foods, I can set you up at this Portuguese place." Kensi tried to sound helpful.

A plan hatched in Eric's mind. "Nice place? Good for a first date?" he asked with false naivety.

"Yeah. It's called _O Cravos_." Her eyes turned threatening. "But I'm not getting you through their wait-list unless it's to take Nell there for a fifth date."

A smile formed across his face. "But it's good for a first date, too? I'll just tell M…"

"Don't you dare! I could hurt you six ways to Sunday!" She punctuated her outburst with another head-slap.

* * *

As Eric drove them from Nell's to the restaurant, Nell looked over and asked, "So..., with all that went on this week…"

"Yeah," Eric agreed, laughing at the understatement.

"We never got around to your plans. What would you like to be doing six years from now?"

"Gee. I haven't had reason to think about it. There's so much I'm doing here that I really like: the hacking and the decryption. I think Kaleidoscope could really help a lot of places. If I could become the go-to guy for that stuff, I'd be happy as a clam." A bivalve's smile took over Eric's face.

"What, like fly in to help with a case?" Nell sounded excited.

"Not really. I don't think there would be time." Eric spoke slowly, like he was thinking it up as he went along. "But if, say, I could set up Kaleidoscopes all over, then their operators could pass it over to me if it got tough."

"There's also the hacking."

Eric shrugged. "Same deal. It's all ones and zeroes anyhow. I could pull it from wherever the case is to wherever I am."

"Seriously, I like it." Nell gave her voice an ominous echo. "Eric Beale, …Now he's going national." As they both laughed, Eric gently accelerated from a stoplight.

The interior of the restaurant reminded Eric of the Mission, and his mind prepared to launch into one of its tirades of self-reprimand, until he caught sight of the central fountain, surrounded by arches and geometric tiles of China white and Majorca blue. As soon as he could appreciate the differences, Eric relaxed, listening to the classical guitar playing quietly in the background. After Eric had seated Nell and taken his own place, the hostess gave them menus and explained that the paella was served family-style, "Just tell us which you'd like and Chef will prepare it for two."

The menu presented a dozen permutations of seafoods atop saffron-infused rice. They had finally decided on the _Aragonaise_, for it had just the right combination of seafood for their taste. Then Mike, their waiter, threw their tentative and polite negotiations into turmoil when he mentioned the special of the day, "It's like the _Barcelona_, but with wild-caught Asian Carp from Illinois replacing the monkfish."

Nell looked up from her menu in surprise. "That's the invasive fish threatening the Great Lakes?"

"Right. We get it from suppliers who have a special arrangement with the Illinois Department of Game and Fish to take them from the Illinois River."

"That's such a great idea. They're all through the Mississippi river basin—almost taking it over—but if they get through the Chicago Canal to the Great Lakes…" and she gave a little shudder.

Eric looked from Nell to Mike. "What better way to deal with invasive fish than to cook them and eat them?" Eric looked back at his menu. "Oh, but the _Barcelona_ has squid. That's why we decided on the _Aragonaise_. Too bad. I'd love to help with the Asian Carp problem."

"Me too."

Mike excused himself. "I'll give you a few more minutes."

A few minutes later the chef, a friendly-looking and well-fed man, followed Mike to their table. He pulled a chair over. "So, Michael tells me you'd like the Asian Carp."

"Yes, we would love to support the idea, but I guess you think it goes with the squid. We wouldn't want to interfere with your vision," Eric said humbly, "so we'll trust your judgment and decide accordingly. You can't have everything, right?"

"No, no, no. A paella like this has always been a combination of—a celebration of—what's available. If you'd like the _Aragonaise_ with Asian carp added in, I'd love to make it," he said expansively. "If you'd rather have the special without squid, then let's celebrate that way instead."

The chef helped them design their own paella, and recommended a _garnacha_ rosé to match, that fortunately was available by the glass, for they each were planning only a single glass. Two nearby diners paused to watch as they finished their conversation with the chef. He left Nell and Eric and made his way to their table with assurance.

Half an hour later, the paella arrived: a hearty display of lobster, mussels, shrimp, chicken, and their fish, all on a bed of rice the color of old burnished gold. Once Nell had tasted its subtle and warming spices, she gave her glowing review. "The carp fits right in. It's like they evolved just for this dish, like they've lived in Spain for hundreds of years."

Eric gave a chuckle then leaned in. "Don't say that to the fish, though, or they'll move there next! It's like they're jumping right out of the river to get into this dish."

Their laughter was interrupted when someone asked, "So, are you enjoying the Asian Carp?"

They had expected such a question from Mike, and were surprised to see instead one of Hollywood's leading ladies and her screenwriter husband.

Eric made to stand up, but the gentleman waved him down, and pulled chairs from the adjacent table for himself and his beautiful bride.

"My," Nell twittered, "What a surprise."

"Oh, it's a pleasure. We'd learned of your environmental concerns, and were hoping for a minute of your time to compare notes. Do you like it?" She indicated their dish with a balletic sweep of her hand.

"Did you have the Asian Carp, too?" Nell asked, smiling broadly, almost artificially. They nodded, so she continued. "It's tasty, but if these fish get into the Great Lakes, it would be a major disaster, so it feels good to be able to do something to prevent that."

"Right. I'm glad _the Alhambra_ is doing something," said the actress.

Eric agreed, "It's nice to be able to help the environment by deciding _to_ eat something, rather than to _not_ eat something."

"That's a good way to put it," said the actress, thinking.

They rose to leave, wishing Nell and Eric a pleasant evening.

* * *

About 11:00 the next morning, Eric's phone rang, and the display indicated an incoming call from Nell Jones. "This is a surprise. Is everything okay there, Nell?"

"Relax, Eric. I wanted to thank you again for a wonderful date. And yes, things are fine here." She paused to reconsider. "Well, actually, I do have just one teensy little problem. I've got a whole tub of leftover seafood, and I think I'm gonna need a hand with it."

Eric played along. "That's funny. I just picked up a six-pack of beer, but I've got nobody to share it with."

"What to do, what to do?" Nell teased.

"I've got an idea. Why don't I stop by your place and we'll get together for a picnic?" Eric sounded like he'd suddenly had the greatest idea in all the world.

"I've got the makings for a salad here, and we can go into the National Forest near here."

"Great. I'll see what I can find for dessert. Can you give me about thirty minutes, Nell?" So, after twenty-five minutes, Eric pulled into Nell's parking lot, his backseat loaded with a cooler, two bottles of iced beer and some fresh, if store-bought, baklava.

Before Eric had even parked, Nell bounced from the apartment carrying a steaming tin of paella. They set it in the back, and then exchanged a warm and friendly kiss. "I have to run back in for the salad and the plasticware."

"Can I join you? You may need another set of hands."

Within just a few minutes they were on their way for a happy and easygoing afternoon picnic.

Afterward, as they cleared the picnic table together, Eric looked over at Nell and asked, "Would you like to get together tomorrow? We could…I dunno…see a movie or something?"

"I'd like to see you tomorrow, but I don't think there are any good movies. Why don't you come over for some Mario Kart?"

"We've done that before, Nell. How 'bout real go-carts? There's a place in Sylmar."

"That sounds fun! I'd love to watch you eat my dust!"

"No way. You're too aggressive. You'll be bouncing off bumper tires like a fractal oscillator."

Nell pulled her face close to Eric's. "We'll just have to see about that, Buster! You are so gonna lose."

He lowered his face to her, his denial nearly rubbing her nose with his. As quickly as it had started, the teasing, challenging conversation disappeared. "Can I pick you up about noon?"

At the go-cart track, they spent several hours driving like kids, their smack-talk alternately erudite and juvenile. Any extra aggressiveness Nell had, she dissipated in the bumper-car hall. On the way home, Nell leaned over to suggest to Eric, "One-two for the afternoon. You drove like an expert out there. Maybe you're the one who should go off for the FLETC tactical driving course."

Eric straightened in his seat at the complement, but then shook his head and replied, "Driving's the easy part. Interrogations, Demolitions, Firearms, Hand-to-hand: I'd need a complete personality transplant before I could even think about those." He shuddered as his synapses rebelled at the thought.

They returned to friendly silence, listening to Branford Marsalis on the radio. As Eric pulled into Nell's parking lot, she broke the silence. " So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?"

"I've been re-reading the classic novels lately. I was planning on hanging out with Hemingway this evening." Left unmentioned was the laundry he'd planned to fit it between.

"That's cool. What are you reading?"

"_A Farewell to Arms_."

"Why don't you come up and read my copy? I've wanted to get back into the classics myself. I think I'll start _Gatsby_ for… let's see… I think it's the eighth time."

"Don't do that for me!"

"Oh, no. The second and third times were for school; all the rest were recreation. I'd look forward to it. Besides, we can hang out, munch some Oreos and let the energy wear off."

* * *

On Monday morning, Nell arrived after the rest of the team. As she and Eric waited by the coffee machine, he handed her his personal iPad. He'd come across an article in the Sunday _Times_ dining section about the push for restaurants to serve invasive fishes. Surprisingly, the article featured their new favorite movie star. Nell whispered, "Look what she told the paper, 'It's nice to be able to help the environment by deciding to eat something, rather than to not eat something.' What? You're feeding her lines now?" Puzzled, Eric looked at her, so she pulled on his arm until his ear descended to her lips' level. Then she whispered, "That's exactly what you told them, remember?"

Eric's surprise sprang equally from the facts that the star had, indeed, borrowed his words _and_ that Nell had remembered them. It barely had time to show before Detective Shaggy butted in. "Eric, buddy, you missed some awesome waves Saturday. Where were you, man?"

Almost reflexively, Kensi swatted her partner. "Maybe it's none of your business."

"Oh." He reacted as if it had been a standard Kensi rebuke, but it did draw the team's attention onto Eric and Nell while he still held his ear to her breath. It took only one silent moment for the implications to sink in. "Oh." Then he pointed at Nell and Eric with the forefinger of each hand. "Oh, yeah? Oh yeah! Whoo-hoo!" and their simultaneous blushing nods confirmed the news for the entire team.


	10. Here's Looking at You, Kid!

**Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS: LA**

**April 2013**

**"Cooking is the continuation of love by other means."**

* * *

As the days went on, Eric and Nell became nearly as inseparable off the job as they were at the Mission, and fell into a happy, springtime-in-love rhythm that started as soon as they met in Ops and lasted until Eric dropped Nell off at her apartment each night. Nell applied to the Naval War College, Army War College, and National Defense University, and seemed much more surprised than Hetty did when she was accepted to all three places.

If Detective Deeks had visited to investigate, he would have left disappointed at what he spied, for their "dates" usually consisted of little more than meeting at one apartment or the other and, over herbal tea and a plate of cookies, draping across each other on the sofa to spend the evening reading. Nell's Kindle became a library of national security readings, from Sun Tzu to Clausewitz to Richard Haass, while Eric spent his evenings engrossed in the latest operating manuals and tech journals, followed by a few pages from a spy novel.

As the weeks passed, though, Eric sensed a melancholy undertone to Nell's mood. Finally, he made a plan to confront it: on Saturday he would prepare her a dinner of her favorite comfort foods. He had even managed to track down a chocolate cake recipe from the website of her hometown church. The preface said, "The Jones family has been bringing this cake to church suppers for years and always leaves with an empty platter." So, he marshaled his courage and set to baking it as soon as he awoke. As the cake cooled, he did his last-minute shopping.

A market wrapped around a building a block from his, so Eric took a jaunty walk to get the fresh groceries. His first stop was the baker's, where he selected rye rolls with a hint of orange, because they would match the Scandinavian breads of Nell's Minnesota. Next, the florist wrapped his half-dozen daffodils and dispensed advice on how to keep them fresh.

Eric's upbeat mood came to a sudden, overwhelmed end when he entered _Gene's Greens_, the produce shop. To match the hometown comfort-food theme, he had planned a simple iceberg salad, but springtime in California provided a profusion of greens that quietly demanded something more adventuresome. Gene was an aging hippie with his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a magnificent, bushy ponytail tied with a tie-died band. He sensed Eric's panic and worked his way over to guide him, finally recommending a mix of chervil, baby chard and mizuna. Eric would top it with a few baby carrots, and mark Nell's salad with three edible pansies. For the dressing, he bought bottles of balsamic vinegar and walnut oil and snapped a picture of a recipe card specifying their proportions. As he rung Eric up, the gentleman plucked a sprig each of thyme and rosemary and folded them loosely into a sheet of unbleached butchers' paper. "With our complements," he said with a smile.

The salad makings had taken longer than Eric had expected, so as he returned home, he mentally prioritized his steps. As soon as he stepped in the door, he set his purchases on the table and extracted a just-right basket for the rolls and a pitcher for the flowers. While the pitcher filled, he set the rolls in their basket, still in the bag, and started unwrapping the flowers. In they went, and onto the table. Eric hoped to send the flowers home with Nell, so he set the florist's paper flat on his bed, the only unclaimed horizontal surface remaining in his small apartment.

Since the cake was still cooling, he got the meatloaf into the oven and set some baking potatoes alongside. A little later, he added a pan of vegetables to roast. The cake's frosting recipe looked more difficult than anything he'd ever tried, but it came out looking (and tasting!) like a frosting so he used it on his masterpiece, although with more enthusiasm than skill. He applied it so thickly he had to put the cake in his fridge to set the frosting. On the other hand, he ended up with time to shower and do a little last-minute cleaning before he had to get the salad made.

As soon as he had rinsed the salad greens, his doorbell rang.

"Hello, Rockstar!"

"Eric, it smells amazing! Just like home," and she stepped into his arms. "You're just so sweet. What did I do to deserve this?"

"You just seemed a little down, so I was hoping to cheer you up."

She pulled back in his arms to look him in the eye. "Remind me to get bummed out more often!"

Eric gave a rueful chuckle. "Thank you, but no! I'll be cleaning powdered sugar and cocoa powder out of that kitchen for the next month as is."

"Cocoa powder? That's not your secret ingredient in the entree, is it?"

"No. That's dessert. Promise you won't laugh, and I'll show you."

"I promise," she said with a mix of trepidation and pity. So he opened the refrigerator door to reveal the cake within. "It looks…" she paused to choose her word carefully, "decadent." His laugh reassured her that he appreciated her discretion.

He gleefully put on a playlist he'd designed for the evening, filled with upbeat electronica. As they bounced around his tiny apartment, he made the dressing and plated the salads. Nell brought the iced tea to the table while Eric changed playlists and brought the salads to the table, setting the flower-decked plate at her place.

"I've never eaten flowers before! This will be weird." A little later, she did taste one, and offered her review. "They're good. You've got to try one." She slipped one of the flowers onto her fork, and held it out for him to eat from.

After they finished the salads, Eric excused himself to make gravy for the meatloaf, while Nell watched and provided a monologue about her readings.

In a fit of uncharacteristic machismo he instantly regretted, he pulled the potatoes from the oven with his bare fingers. Unaware, Nell gushed, "Wow! It's been so long since I've had a real oven-baked potato. Lately, I've just zapped them in the microwave." Meanwhile, Eric discretely cooled his fingertips with his glass of iced tea.

All through the meal, Nell continued to rave about Eric's cooking, eliciting, more than once, his trademark sideways grin.

After Nell took her first bite of the cake, she told an anxiously-waiting Eric, "Wow! This cake is amazing. It reminds me of—of all things—church suppers."

"I would hope so—I got it off your church's web site." He smiled with pride, but then scowled in puzzlement. "But, what, your mom only baked it for church suppers?"

"No, the Joneses brought it."

"But…"

Sensing his confusion, and too much in love to torture him any more, she explained with a laugh, "There were two Jones families at our church—not related. People called them the Fifth Street Joneses and us the Elm Street Joneses." Eric could do nothing other than laugh so Nell continued, her eyes focused faraway in reminiscence. "It's been a long time since I thought of them. At Halloween, she always baked cookies for trick-or-treaters… and he had the best garden in town. In his retirement he actually raised his own hybrid irises. Sweet little couple." Her head cocked but her smile remained as she continued, "Their grandkids were hellions, but old Mr. and Mrs. Jones were the greatest. I can't believe you found her cake recipe on the web!"  
As Eric watched Nell, he decided that, far from making the wrong cake, it worked out even better than if he could have found a recipe from Nell's family.

After dessert, they settled on his sofa, "That was amazing, Eric, and we didn't even have any beer or wine. I know you would have wanted an Anchor Steam with that."

He made to stand up again. "I can get you one, or some merlot if you'd rather, but none for me. I wanted to keep my head clear for this."

"For what?" she asked nervously as she pulled him back to his seat.

"Like I said, you've seemed down lately, and I wanted to talk to you about it."

"I am not! How could I be 'down' after a meal like that," and she indicated the table, "and with a guy like you in my life?" She snuggled into his chest.

Eric persisted. "You are too. 'Down,' that is. I've noticed it the last week or so. You even admitted it yourself. As soon as you walked in, you said, 'Remind me to get bummed out more often.' What's going on?"

Nell opened her mouth to argue, but Eric narrowed his eyes in warning, so she gathered her thoughts to confess. "Getting accepted to those programs brought home for me how this will all come to a screeching halt in September." She held her forehead in her hands for a minute before looking up. Despair shown in her eyes as she turned to Eric. "Why? Why did Hetty let us get together like this, only to pull us apart?" She paused and studied the coaster on his coffee table. "What's she doing writing my future anyhow?"

"Nell, Rockstar, I'm not in this relationship because of anything Hetty did. I'm here because I want this. September and all, I want this. And I trust you too. I trust you to act on your own free will, not as Hetty's pawn. She may have un-chocked the wheels, but we're the ones steering the truck. We're writing our own futures."

"But I know all about all the goodness inside of you, Eric." She indicated the dinner surrounding them, "After everything we've been through, I could never imagine that the future I write wouldn't include you."

"Nor could I imagine my future not including you. Together we write our futures."

Nell agreed, "We write our own futures together," and she pulled him in for a kiss.

"Together," Eric whispered, and returned to the kiss. The kiss deepened, and she reached for his shirt buttons. Eric pulled Nell to him and, never breaking the kiss, they stumbled—together—toward his hall and bedroom.

* * *

As the morning sun came streaming through his discount-store curtains, Eric pulled the sheet up over Nell's nude back, and carefully rolled to his back to contemplate his enormous good fortune:

_We'll always have Torrance._


End file.
